Inception Fic: Reflections of Men
Nov. 10th, 2010 05:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
azuremewTitle: Reflections of Men (1/?)
Word Count: 3,112
Pairing: Past Browning/Fischer, Rumored Arthur/Eames, Eventual Eames/Fischer
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: This content might be triggering to some. It includes non-con, dub-con, hints of dom/sub, attempt at suicide, and cutting; Robert's also considered underage
Summary: Arthur wanted to know why he missed the fact that Fischer's mind was militarized, so he asked Eames to trick Fischer into showing him.
Author's Note: This is written in the first/second person and is a wee bit experimental on the format, so I apologize if it's a little confusing.
Part 2
It is Saturday night, and you are knocking on the bathroom door. “Robert,” you say in that lovely voice, soft and sweet. My heart would melt if I did not fear it would break. “Robert,” you repeat. “Open the door.”
I stare at the mirror, and my reflection stares back. Cold, blue eyes, stark features, and a mouth that moves words I do not want to hear. “Leave, Eames.” I look down at a my hand. It rests on the bathroom sink, open palm with a handful of blue pills splashed with red. My face is whiter than it should be.
“Robert, we should talk about this, yeah?” you ask and pause in hopes of a reply. I say nothing, so you add bang at the door. Then, softer, you add, “Look, what you saw in the bar was nothing. Arthur and I, we are only friends. You know that.”
I have heard it before.
Before . . .
It is another day. Father is sitting in his office. At least that is what I think. It is after class, after a riveting game of chess and a more stimulating chat with a boy named Preston. The doors of the Sydney home swing wide open. We tumble in. The housekeepers have long since gone. It is quiet except for the soft, low sounds that exit his mouth as I kiss his neck.
I strip off his shirt while he sheds off mine more delicately, surprise in his gray eyes as we meet each other's gaze. “You have done this before?”
“Many times before,” I assure him. “Just not at home.”
Home is something different. The warmth is from the central heating and not the smiles and loving caresses like it is now. This home has walls that listen and absorb rather than the gossip of a younger sibling or worry of a mother. It remembers each moment. It echoes a life of the past and a promise of the future. It tells a foundation of men marrying women, having children, and continuing the Fischer legacy. In every way, to bring this in would be like cursing in a church. Defying its beliefs, it's structure.
That is why I have so much conviction in my caress. My kisses leave puffed, red marks that will bruise for days, left at points to be strategically covered by shirts with collars and a tie as a noose. We move through the grand hall and up the stairs to my bedroom, losing shoes near the front door and navy blue coats with golden emblems on those hallowed steps.
By the door, leather belts are unbuckled, and I have his cock in my hand. He is crumpling beneath my grasp and holding tight onto my ass for support. We kiss, and I slide my tongue passed his lips and teeth, moaning from the sharp edges in contrast to the soft, slick warmth.
This is not either of our first times. It shows in our movements, and like good, little private school boys or rich businessmen, neither of us are really willing to concede. As soon as he gains a bit of composure, his hands slide up and beneath my slacks and underwear. There is a sting to his pressure, and I let go, widening my mouth to take his in a brief moment of submission.
His other hand is trying to remove the last of my clothes, but finds it frustrating while trying to push deeper inside of me. I cannot help but aid him. Preston is not amused at the turn. He thinks that I would have fought longer, that the son of Maurice Fischer would not let him become someone's fuck toy. He pulls out, and I grin. My hands drop just as my pants do, and I shove him onto the bed, his legs bending at the knees and air out of his lungs.
“You are full of surprises, Robert,” he tells me as I spread his legs and kneel before him. It was not until the conversation today that he found out. It was a passing rumor, one that I denied time and time again while he was always forward, unhindered by family expectations of marriage. I am smiling at him in response, spreading my lips before parting. There is the taste of desire before the flesh, then nothing at all as I take him without thought of gentle kisses or licks.
He moans, rising off the bed to wrap his fingers into my hair. I feel them dig and then push of his palm against the back of my head. I do not gag, and I wonder if I have surprised him yet again, for he stops holding onto me. The room is silent except for my sucking of his hard cock.
Then I feel it. The pressure of a clenched hand around my shoulder and wrist. Bone aches and muscles swell from it, but it is nothing compared to the impact of my back as I hit the wood ground ten feet away. My eyes are closed, for I do not need to see. I can hear it perfectly well – the yelling, the sound of my father's voice and the frightened scampers of a selfish, spoiled brat.
The door closes again, and I make it to my knees, hand planted on the ground, before he is standing in front of me, the sound of his belt being removed in my ears. Before I can find my way to my feet, he is pulling at my wrist again to force me up and against a wall. I scrape at paint as if this house might give me something to hold onto, but it is as relentless in my punishment as my father. He holds me while pulling back, slow and then swift. Each crack is like a ravaged storm. Lightning sparks through my flesh as thunder rolls through my ears. I do not even hear what he is telling me, how disgusting I am. He knows this. I am such a defiant boy, like him when he was younger.
That, perhaps, is why he stops sooner than I expect and pulls me back down to the floor. My legs hurt too much to get away, my arm too much to push, so I wait with eyes tightly shut for the pause that seems like eternity.
I wish that it was, for he came back with a wood paddle he had used before as a child with no prevail. I know because he had it washed and placed where I could see it every day after. Until his death, it haunted me, for he thought he might teach me a lesson that would stay.
The sensation is more dull than the leather, but it covers more surface. He does it only a few times before it stops. “You are going to listen to me, Robert,” he says. “I am going to make sure you listen to me and stop this foolishness.”
The end of the hilt is much wider than the rest. I bite my lower lip as my final chance at rebellion, to hold in the screams and begs and show of my submission. It lasts until he cannot shove it any further, pulls out, and repeats. The second time is more painful than the last, for I am red with blood and swell.
Now
I sit on the floor between the toilet and bathtub, waiting for the ibuprofen and diphenhydramine citrate to kick in. Part of me wishes that I raided your bag before storming into her, found something more potent and swift. Another wonders if this will even work.
Nothing ever does the way it is supposed to.
You left minutes ago, unable to handle this anymore than I can handle your lies. I know that if you wanted to, you could pull off some trick with the lock, slide a credit card or one of those pins, and open the door. You won't, though, because it would remove that mask I know you hide behind.
Instead, you will wait, expecting me to come to my senses, or be infuriated enough to go to the bar and fuck that younger man. I close my eyes and imagine you and him in a room nearby. Your hand around his tie while the other messes up his perfect hair. I hear the moaning, the rhythmic beats like animals in heat, and pull my head forward. Forcing it back, it collides with the tiled wall. I still hear your voice, hot and heavy, repeating his name like a mantra you worship, “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur . . .”
Again and again.
Until there is nothing left at all.
Before
Uncle Peter arrives later, once my father leaves to his office downstairs. He has with him a warm, wet cloth and a towel. I do not notice him until the heat gently rubs against the balmy coldness. I react naturally to his presence, pull at his suit coat, bundling cloth in fistfuls while I sob. He says something, and I do not here it, having recently come out of my trance like swimming from the depths of an ocean. I have the bends, dizzy and confused, then then reality settles in through his coaxing. It crawls up my stomach and clenches it into knots.
I scramble to my feet and hit the floor hard to reach the bathroom down the hall. The door slams behind me as I fall, fingers tight around the porcelain as my body spasms from dry heaves. Uncle Peter follows and kneels beside me, his hand upon my back, trying to soothe the ordeal as well as he can. He rises up before I can stop, and when the toilet flushes, I see the cabinet door open with a translucent, orange bottle in his hand.
“Here,” he says as I stand. Two, white pills far larger than the aspirin I had taken before are set on the counter. “Take these and lie down, Robert. Try to get some sleep.”
“I don't think that I can,” I tell him with the cold water upon my fingers. They close enough to cup it and splash my face. It falls down my chest, and Uncle Peter grabs a towel.
He dabs it dry, patting it with a soft warmth so welcoming that I lean back into him. “The pills will help you sleep while I call a doctor, get you out of that school until you are ready.” His breath is against my ear. “Get some rest, and I will handle everything.”
The water continues to run as a glass is filled. He picks up the pills and lays them in my hand to be swallowed, gently rubbing my neck to make certain. When I gulp the last of it, his lips touch my shoulder, and then the side of my neck. “I am sorry, Uncle Peter,” I murmur suddenly, unable to hold back my guilt. “I should have listened to you, been more careful.”
“Shhhhh,” he cooed. “I know that it is hard for you, but you will learn. For now . . .” he pulls away and ushers me into the hallway, a towel used as a temporary cover until I am in my room. The door closed as the drug started to kick in. The pain was gone, and so was my worry as I climbed beneath the covers and closed my eyes, forgetting everything that happened for the time.
Now
There is the sound of door handle again, muted from the drugs. I force my eyes open a little in time to see it swing open and you kneeling at my side. The instruments drop with a louder clink. “Robert . . .” you say for the umpteenth time that night in every way but the one I want to hear. You have your hand around my wrist and then a towel is there with pressure.
You get up to the other room, and I stare at the ceiling because the light is too bright ahead of me. I feel your arms around me again, pulling me forward and tilting my head back. My lips are pried open to pour some liquid that tastes bitter. “Swallow it, Robert, come on . . .” I do, and you hold me until what I can only believe is syrup of ipecac takes hold.
I am retching up the dinner we had earlier and wine with the pills, and you continue to hold me, stroking my back while holding onto my wrist. You stay there until it is over and pull me back to settle against you while propping on the bath tub. “Robert . . .” you say. “I am sorry, pet. So sorry.”
Before
I wake to warm kisses along the back of my neck and shiver. His body presses against mine, his cock hard against my back and already slick with desire for more. He stops to move back, one hand pressing against the back of my neck, keeping my face deep inside of the pillow, as he pushes in with one, long thrust that burns so much that I want to scream.
“Shhhhh, Robert,” he tells me, but I cannot. He pushes slowly and pulls only to repeat over and over, grunting into my hair then biting my ear. “Robert,” he says again. “Promise me one thing, boy.”
“Yes, Uncle Peter?” I choke, my eyes stinging from the tears.
“Promise that you will not be foolish again,” he says and slides an arm around my stomach. “You are only hurting yourself by acting out. I can only protect you so much.”
“I am sorry, Uncle Peter,” I tell him. “I won't. No one will ever know.”
He slides back, but it is only to pull me onto my knees. As he brings our bodies back together, he slams harder. My hands dig into the covers for something to hold onto, to swallow back the screams that want to tear through my throat. “Robert . . .” I hear him pant, and with one hand around my hip, he wrapped the other to stroke me with his thrusts, bringing us together. We move down so that he can push in deeper, filling me completely until I am shuddering beneath him.
By morning, I wake with a soreness and want to curl into the fetal position, but Anne comes in and tells me breakfast is waiting. It is Saturday morning, and my father is waiting for me.
To my surprise, so is Uncle Peter. “Robert,” he says in a jovial, excited tone. “Have a seat. We have much to talk about. Your father has decided to let you join the company under my tutelage.”
“Oh?” I ask with feigned interest and sit, trying my best to find some way to keep my composure. Another one of the staff comes out of the kitchen with a tray filled with rich smells of fresh fruits, oatmeal, and other delights that make my stomach turn.
My father sips his coffee and nods, “Your uncle tells me that you are interested in the company. Is that so?”
I clear my throat partially to give a second and also to deter the desire to vomit again at the sight. Turning my gaze to Uncle Peter, he nods. “The energy aspect, yes. From a economical standpoint, it has its advantages. The world will always need their electronics, almost as much as the air we breathe or water we drink. It's a necessity for survival. But --” I stop because of Uncle Peter and refrain from mentioning the global disaster Fischer and Morrow is leading by their choice in how to create this energy.
But my father notices, and he is quick to listen if only to find more reason to despise me, “But what, Robert?”
“What about finding a more renewable resource? The research is already done, so all it would take is a few chan--” I stop again from the slam of my father's palm against the table. It creates a shudder down my spine.
“Robert, do you know how many people Fischer and Morrow employ?” he asks, and I nod slowly. “Do you know how many jobs would be lost if we made these changes? The amount of money we would have to put in and remove from the people.”
You mean you, I think bitterly but nod again and say, “Yes, sir.”
“If you can forget these foolish notions, then I will allow Mr. Browning to bring you in, but only if you stop this.”
I nod and rise, “May I be excused? I think I have the flu.”
“He did have a fever last night, Maurice,” Uncle Peter notes.
He almost opens his mouth to interject but nods and picks up a paper instead, “Very well.”
Uncle Peter smiles at me, “Get some rest, Robert. Monday, if you feel up to it, you will return to classes and see the office where you and I will be working.”
Earlier this evening . . .
We are sitting in the restaurant. You have your hand over mine, thumb tracing knuckles to soothe before the coming storm. We are in public, but you know how it is. It did not matter before. Why would it now? Your eyes beg me to listen, and I sip my water.
You tell me that you have borrowed one of those devices that share dreams. You want to share your dreams with me, the ones before you said you can only recall while being under. “We all have our past secrets, Robert. Let me show you mine.”
“I don't care about your past, Eames.” I tell him. “I care about you, now, and your future.”
That was why you told me about the inception, about Dominic Cobb and the team. I laughed at first, unable to believe, until I start to recall it all in half-remembered dreams. My mind opened up, and I ask why you were here, why you need to tell me this. You looked across the room, and I turned to see the younger man at a booth. Arthur.
“This was his doing?” I ask.
“Partly, yeah. Also mine.”
I try to believe it, so I accept your offer.
Word Count: 3,112
Pairing: Past Browning/Fischer, Rumored Arthur/Eames, Eventual Eames/Fischer
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: This content might be triggering to some. It includes non-con, dub-con, hints of dom/sub, attempt at suicide, and cutting; Robert's also considered underage
Summary: Arthur wanted to know why he missed the fact that Fischer's mind was militarized, so he asked Eames to trick Fischer into showing him.
Author's Note: This is written in the first/second person and is a wee bit experimental on the format, so I apologize if it's a little confusing.
Part 2
It is Saturday night, and you are knocking on the bathroom door. “Robert,” you say in that lovely voice, soft and sweet. My heart would melt if I did not fear it would break. “Robert,” you repeat. “Open the door.”
I stare at the mirror, and my reflection stares back. Cold, blue eyes, stark features, and a mouth that moves words I do not want to hear. “Leave, Eames.” I look down at a my hand. It rests on the bathroom sink, open palm with a handful of blue pills splashed with red. My face is whiter than it should be.
“Robert, we should talk about this, yeah?” you ask and pause in hopes of a reply. I say nothing, so you add bang at the door. Then, softer, you add, “Look, what you saw in the bar was nothing. Arthur and I, we are only friends. You know that.”
I have heard it before.
It is another day. Father is sitting in his office. At least that is what I think. It is after class, after a riveting game of chess and a more stimulating chat with a boy named Preston. The doors of the Sydney home swing wide open. We tumble in. The housekeepers have long since gone. It is quiet except for the soft, low sounds that exit his mouth as I kiss his neck.
I strip off his shirt while he sheds off mine more delicately, surprise in his gray eyes as we meet each other's gaze. “You have done this before?”
“Many times before,” I assure him. “Just not at home.”
Home is something different. The warmth is from the central heating and not the smiles and loving caresses like it is now. This home has walls that listen and absorb rather than the gossip of a younger sibling or worry of a mother. It remembers each moment. It echoes a life of the past and a promise of the future. It tells a foundation of men marrying women, having children, and continuing the Fischer legacy. In every way, to bring this in would be like cursing in a church. Defying its beliefs, it's structure.
That is why I have so much conviction in my caress. My kisses leave puffed, red marks that will bruise for days, left at points to be strategically covered by shirts with collars and a tie as a noose. We move through the grand hall and up the stairs to my bedroom, losing shoes near the front door and navy blue coats with golden emblems on those hallowed steps.
By the door, leather belts are unbuckled, and I have his cock in my hand. He is crumpling beneath my grasp and holding tight onto my ass for support. We kiss, and I slide my tongue passed his lips and teeth, moaning from the sharp edges in contrast to the soft, slick warmth.
This is not either of our first times. It shows in our movements, and like good, little private school boys or rich businessmen, neither of us are really willing to concede. As soon as he gains a bit of composure, his hands slide up and beneath my slacks and underwear. There is a sting to his pressure, and I let go, widening my mouth to take his in a brief moment of submission.
His other hand is trying to remove the last of my clothes, but finds it frustrating while trying to push deeper inside of me. I cannot help but aid him. Preston is not amused at the turn. He thinks that I would have fought longer, that the son of Maurice Fischer would not let him become someone's fuck toy. He pulls out, and I grin. My hands drop just as my pants do, and I shove him onto the bed, his legs bending at the knees and air out of his lungs.
“You are full of surprises, Robert,” he tells me as I spread his legs and kneel before him. It was not until the conversation today that he found out. It was a passing rumor, one that I denied time and time again while he was always forward, unhindered by family expectations of marriage. I am smiling at him in response, spreading my lips before parting. There is the taste of desire before the flesh, then nothing at all as I take him without thought of gentle kisses or licks.
He moans, rising off the bed to wrap his fingers into my hair. I feel them dig and then push of his palm against the back of my head. I do not gag, and I wonder if I have surprised him yet again, for he stops holding onto me. The room is silent except for my sucking of his hard cock.
Then I feel it. The pressure of a clenched hand around my shoulder and wrist. Bone aches and muscles swell from it, but it is nothing compared to the impact of my back as I hit the wood ground ten feet away. My eyes are closed, for I do not need to see. I can hear it perfectly well – the yelling, the sound of my father's voice and the frightened scampers of a selfish, spoiled brat.
The door closes again, and I make it to my knees, hand planted on the ground, before he is standing in front of me, the sound of his belt being removed in my ears. Before I can find my way to my feet, he is pulling at my wrist again to force me up and against a wall. I scrape at paint as if this house might give me something to hold onto, but it is as relentless in my punishment as my father. He holds me while pulling back, slow and then swift. Each crack is like a ravaged storm. Lightning sparks through my flesh as thunder rolls through my ears. I do not even hear what he is telling me, how disgusting I am. He knows this. I am such a defiant boy, like him when he was younger.
That, perhaps, is why he stops sooner than I expect and pulls me back down to the floor. My legs hurt too much to get away, my arm too much to push, so I wait with eyes tightly shut for the pause that seems like eternity.
I wish that it was, for he came back with a wood paddle he had used before as a child with no prevail. I know because he had it washed and placed where I could see it every day after. Until his death, it haunted me, for he thought he might teach me a lesson that would stay.
The sensation is more dull than the leather, but it covers more surface. He does it only a few times before it stops. “You are going to listen to me, Robert,” he says. “I am going to make sure you listen to me and stop this foolishness.”
The end of the hilt is much wider than the rest. I bite my lower lip as my final chance at rebellion, to hold in the screams and begs and show of my submission. It lasts until he cannot shove it any further, pulls out, and repeats. The second time is more painful than the last, for I am red with blood and swell.
I sit on the floor between the toilet and bathtub, waiting for the ibuprofen and diphenhydramine citrate to kick in. Part of me wishes that I raided your bag before storming into her, found something more potent and swift. Another wonders if this will even work.
Nothing ever does the way it is supposed to.
You left minutes ago, unable to handle this anymore than I can handle your lies. I know that if you wanted to, you could pull off some trick with the lock, slide a credit card or one of those pins, and open the door. You won't, though, because it would remove that mask I know you hide behind.
Instead, you will wait, expecting me to come to my senses, or be infuriated enough to go to the bar and fuck that younger man. I close my eyes and imagine you and him in a room nearby. Your hand around his tie while the other messes up his perfect hair. I hear the moaning, the rhythmic beats like animals in heat, and pull my head forward. Forcing it back, it collides with the tiled wall. I still hear your voice, hot and heavy, repeating his name like a mantra you worship, “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur . . .”
Again and again.
Until there is nothing left at all.
Uncle Peter arrives later, once my father leaves to his office downstairs. He has with him a warm, wet cloth and a towel. I do not notice him until the heat gently rubs against the balmy coldness. I react naturally to his presence, pull at his suit coat, bundling cloth in fistfuls while I sob. He says something, and I do not here it, having recently come out of my trance like swimming from the depths of an ocean. I have the bends, dizzy and confused, then then reality settles in through his coaxing. It crawls up my stomach and clenches it into knots.
I scramble to my feet and hit the floor hard to reach the bathroom down the hall. The door slams behind me as I fall, fingers tight around the porcelain as my body spasms from dry heaves. Uncle Peter follows and kneels beside me, his hand upon my back, trying to soothe the ordeal as well as he can. He rises up before I can stop, and when the toilet flushes, I see the cabinet door open with a translucent, orange bottle in his hand.
“Here,” he says as I stand. Two, white pills far larger than the aspirin I had taken before are set on the counter. “Take these and lie down, Robert. Try to get some sleep.”
“I don't think that I can,” I tell him with the cold water upon my fingers. They close enough to cup it and splash my face. It falls down my chest, and Uncle Peter grabs a towel.
He dabs it dry, patting it with a soft warmth so welcoming that I lean back into him. “The pills will help you sleep while I call a doctor, get you out of that school until you are ready.” His breath is against my ear. “Get some rest, and I will handle everything.”
The water continues to run as a glass is filled. He picks up the pills and lays them in my hand to be swallowed, gently rubbing my neck to make certain. When I gulp the last of it, his lips touch my shoulder, and then the side of my neck. “I am sorry, Uncle Peter,” I murmur suddenly, unable to hold back my guilt. “I should have listened to you, been more careful.”
“Shhhhh,” he cooed. “I know that it is hard for you, but you will learn. For now . . .” he pulls away and ushers me into the hallway, a towel used as a temporary cover until I am in my room. The door closed as the drug started to kick in. The pain was gone, and so was my worry as I climbed beneath the covers and closed my eyes, forgetting everything that happened for the time.
There is the sound of door handle again, muted from the drugs. I force my eyes open a little in time to see it swing open and you kneeling at my side. The instruments drop with a louder clink. “Robert . . .” you say for the umpteenth time that night in every way but the one I want to hear. You have your hand around my wrist and then a towel is there with pressure.
You get up to the other room, and I stare at the ceiling because the light is too bright ahead of me. I feel your arms around me again, pulling me forward and tilting my head back. My lips are pried open to pour some liquid that tastes bitter. “Swallow it, Robert, come on . . .” I do, and you hold me until what I can only believe is syrup of ipecac takes hold.
I am retching up the dinner we had earlier and wine with the pills, and you continue to hold me, stroking my back while holding onto my wrist. You stay there until it is over and pull me back to settle against you while propping on the bath tub. “Robert . . .” you say. “I am sorry, pet. So sorry.”
I wake to warm kisses along the back of my neck and shiver. His body presses against mine, his cock hard against my back and already slick with desire for more. He stops to move back, one hand pressing against the back of my neck, keeping my face deep inside of the pillow, as he pushes in with one, long thrust that burns so much that I want to scream.
“Shhhhh, Robert,” he tells me, but I cannot. He pushes slowly and pulls only to repeat over and over, grunting into my hair then biting my ear. “Robert,” he says again. “Promise me one thing, boy.”
“Yes, Uncle Peter?” I choke, my eyes stinging from the tears.
“Promise that you will not be foolish again,” he says and slides an arm around my stomach. “You are only hurting yourself by acting out. I can only protect you so much.”
“I am sorry, Uncle Peter,” I tell him. “I won't. No one will ever know.”
He slides back, but it is only to pull me onto my knees. As he brings our bodies back together, he slams harder. My hands dig into the covers for something to hold onto, to swallow back the screams that want to tear through my throat. “Robert . . .” I hear him pant, and with one hand around my hip, he wrapped the other to stroke me with his thrusts, bringing us together. We move down so that he can push in deeper, filling me completely until I am shuddering beneath him.
By morning, I wake with a soreness and want to curl into the fetal position, but Anne comes in and tells me breakfast is waiting. It is Saturday morning, and my father is waiting for me.
To my surprise, so is Uncle Peter. “Robert,” he says in a jovial, excited tone. “Have a seat. We have much to talk about. Your father has decided to let you join the company under my tutelage.”
“Oh?” I ask with feigned interest and sit, trying my best to find some way to keep my composure. Another one of the staff comes out of the kitchen with a tray filled with rich smells of fresh fruits, oatmeal, and other delights that make my stomach turn.
My father sips his coffee and nods, “Your uncle tells me that you are interested in the company. Is that so?”
I clear my throat partially to give a second and also to deter the desire to vomit again at the sight. Turning my gaze to Uncle Peter, he nods. “The energy aspect, yes. From a economical standpoint, it has its advantages. The world will always need their electronics, almost as much as the air we breathe or water we drink. It's a necessity for survival. But --” I stop because of Uncle Peter and refrain from mentioning the global disaster Fischer and Morrow is leading by their choice in how to create this energy.
But my father notices, and he is quick to listen if only to find more reason to despise me, “But what, Robert?”
“What about finding a more renewable resource? The research is already done, so all it would take is a few chan--” I stop again from the slam of my father's palm against the table. It creates a shudder down my spine.
“Robert, do you know how many people Fischer and Morrow employ?” he asks, and I nod slowly. “Do you know how many jobs would be lost if we made these changes? The amount of money we would have to put in and remove from the people.”
You mean you, I think bitterly but nod again and say, “Yes, sir.”
“If you can forget these foolish notions, then I will allow Mr. Browning to bring you in, but only if you stop this.”
I nod and rise, “May I be excused? I think I have the flu.”
“He did have a fever last night, Maurice,” Uncle Peter notes.
He almost opens his mouth to interject but nods and picks up a paper instead, “Very well.”
Uncle Peter smiles at me, “Get some rest, Robert. Monday, if you feel up to it, you will return to classes and see the office where you and I will be working.”
We are sitting in the restaurant. You have your hand over mine, thumb tracing knuckles to soothe before the coming storm. We are in public, but you know how it is. It did not matter before. Why would it now? Your eyes beg me to listen, and I sip my water.
You tell me that you have borrowed one of those devices that share dreams. You want to share your dreams with me, the ones before you said you can only recall while being under. “We all have our past secrets, Robert. Let me show you mine.”
“I don't care about your past, Eames.” I tell him. “I care about you, now, and your future.”
That was why you told me about the inception, about Dominic Cobb and the team. I laughed at first, unable to believe, until I start to recall it all in half-remembered dreams. My mind opened up, and I ask why you were here, why you need to tell me this. You looked across the room, and I turned to see the younger man at a booth. Arthur.
“This was his doing?” I ask.
“Partly, yeah. Also mine.”
I try to believe it, so I accept your offer.
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no subject
Date: 2010-11-10 11:48 pm (UTC)It lent a very interesting sense to the piece, almost like a glimpse of omniscience through a limited perspective. TOTALLY CONTRADICTORY, but so is my appreciation for it here, lol!
Now that we have that out of the way...
I like the way you've handled this here, without too much exposition. Just glimpses, really. I'm very excited to see the next part of it! Is this your fic for NaNo (I don't know if you post piecemeal or all at once), or just something along sort of similar lines?
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Date: 2010-11-11 01:25 am (UTC)And thank you! This is partly your fault, you know, saying that I should continue listening despite writhing in agony at the thought of writing 1st person, let alone 2nd - what the bloody hell? *laughs* It has such a rare quality, much like this particular rarepair.
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Date: 2010-11-11 01:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-11 02:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-13 07:16 am (UTC)the way it's written. stunning.
i don't even like Eames/Fischer, much less Browning/Fischer.
by all means, keep experimenting.
*chinhands intently*
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Date: 2010-11-14 01:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-23 05:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-13 04:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-14 09:33 pm (UTC)