Fic: "Dude," (3/7) Inception, Fischer/Yusuf, Arthur/Eames
Happy Turkey Day, you US of A bastids! To everyone else, Happy Thursday!
More Dude! Also, gratuitous picspam of how I imagine the guys for the purposes of this fic:
Dude (3/7)
Author:
_beetle_
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Robert/Yusuf, Arthur/Eames
Rating: R, so far
Word Count: Approx.
Disclaimer: Not stealing, just appreciating.
Notes: An AU where the Inception team works at a men's magazine called Dude. Previous parts hold court here.
Summary: Written for the
inception_kink prompt: Yusuf is working his first job out of college as a "fact checker" for a semi-sleazy men's magazine; doomed to spend his days researching protein bars and celebrity bra sizes. Robert Fischer is his boss whom he has a million good reasons to hate. So why doesn't he?
Yusuf expects to have to wait for Robert’s hired car to arrive-the man had insisted on sending one, despite Yusuf’s discomfited demurring-but instead finds a black Maybach idling right in front of the Fischer-Morrow building, completely disregarding zoning regulations and posted signs.
Leaning on the driver’s side door is a woman he at first takes to be a child, she’s so small. But her uniform of black chauffer's cap, black velvet jacket, black stretch-pants, and . . . black motorcycle boots, of all things, marks her as the pilot of said Maybach.
He approaches the car hesitantly, slinging his ratty Jansport over one shoulder and attempting to smooth and straighten his blue flannel shirt. The jeans, he knows, are a complete loss.
“Uh,” he says adroitly, and the driver smiles.
“Hey. You must be Yusuf. I’m Ariadne Dufresne, your driver for the afternoon.” She sketches a neat, sardonic little bow then opens the back door of the Maybach. “Slide on in and I’ll squire you guys away to your destination.”
“Uh,” Yusuf says again then conjures up a mumbled “thank you” to go with it. Ariadne dimples and twinkles up at him, and nods at the open door.
“In you go.”
“Right. Thanks.” Yusuf hurriedly slides into the car, pausing only momentarily when he sees Robert back there, reading something on his tablet and frowning.
“I’ll be all yours in just a minute,” he says absently. “Just finishing up some last minute business.”
“Oh. Take your time.” Yusuf sits, pulling his other leg into the car. The door shuts smartly behind him. Seconds later, the Maybach is pulling smoothly into traffic.
After a few moments of staring at Robert’s intent profile-is there no angle from which the man isn’t devastatingly handsome?-Yusuf refocuses on the world outside his tinted window. The scenery barely changes, as traffic is only crawling, so he sinks into the butter-soft leather of the seat and sighs happily. It’s more comfortable than his bed, which is a sprung, creaking old futon he doesn’t, after eight years, have the heart to replace.
Behind the wheel of the Maybach, her head seeming to barely clear the dashboard, Ariadne mutters ”oh, c’mon, really?” under her breath and taps the horn lightly. Ahead of them, an Audi creeps forward a few feet, the Maybach hot on its heels.
“Sorry about that. A CEO’s day is never done, apparently.”
Yusuf starts a little and laughs nervously, looking back over at Robert, who’s watching him with a small smile. The tablet is nowhere to be seen. “I, uh, would imagine not.”
“I used to feel sorry for myself that my dad never spent a lot of time with me growing up, but now I see what he was dealing with-keeping an eye on investments and acquisitions, wheeling and dealing, fending off hostile takeovers, and just keeping the company healthy and growing-“ Robert sighs, glancing out the windshield briefly, his smile turning melancholy. “I have a whole new respect for the old man.”
Uncertain what to do with this personal information, Yusuf shifts uncertainly, uncomfortably, then tentatively offers: “My father was a busy man, also, but he spent some time with me, when I was growing up. Mostly after I was in middle school. But we rarely did anything together that didn’t involve him badgering me about only being in the ninety-ninth percentile of my year. Then tutoring me until I was too tired to keep my eyes open. He was the same way with my older sister: he didn’t know how to relate to young people who weren’t students.”
“Hmm . . . my father didn’t know how to relate to anyone that wasn’t on his payroll. He didn’t seem to care about my grades before I went to the best business school his money could buy me into. And he certainly didn’t tutor me.” Robert snorts softly. “He paid someone to do that, of course.”
Yusuf tilts his head. “Does that mean that you win this round of “My Father Was An Emotionally Unavailable Bastard”?
Robert’s profile gains a slow grin, and he looks over at Yusuf. “Was I being morbid and self-pitying?”
Yusuf smiles back. “Just a tad.”
“I apologize, then, and hope you don’t think me a bore.”
“I don’t see how anyone could,” Yusuf replies then blushes, looking away from the return of that wistful smile. It does strange things to his stomach, like someone released a jar full of luna moths in his gut. “At any rate, there’s nothing to apologize for. At least not to me. We morbid and self-pitying types with daddy-issues can smell our own.”
“Indeed, we can.” Robert sounds amused, and the silence that falls between them feels charged, but not exactly uncomfortable. In the driver's seat, Ariadne’s put in hot pink earbuds, and is nodding her head and tapping the wheel in three-quarter time. The Maybach continues to inch along.
When Robert breaks the silence, it’s with a clear change of subject: “So, tell me a little bit about yourself, Yusuf. What did you go to school for? Ooh, wait-lemme guess: sociology.”
“Actually I dual-majored in physics and engineering.” Yusuf is pleased to note the surprise that momentarily flashes across Robert’s face. “I was one semester away from my first Ph.D when I . . . had a melt-down, of sorts, and eventually dropped out.”
Which is a very glossed-over way of saying I had to check myself into a psych ward for a few months before I was well enough to admit that I was ruining my life by trying to be a carbon copy of my father.
As if almost hearing what Yusuf has left unsaid, Robert frowns. “If it’s not too personal . . . why’d you drop out?”
Yusuf shrugs as if the biggest revelation of his life was a mere nothing. “I didn’t want to be like my father, either: a brilliant scientist with no room or patience for things like love, family, and an engaged life outside of lecturing and research.” He glances at Robert, who’s staring at him like he’s a puzzle that’s just starting to come together. Yusuf blushes yet again. “I want more out of my life than that.”
“Ah . . . some of the mystery unravels,” Robert says somewhat playfully, and Yusuf laughs.
“You think I’m a mystery?”
Robert’s eyebrows quirk up. “Let’s see, a Ph.D candidate with an IQ from here to the moon-don’t deny it-working as a fact-checker for a men’s magazine with a slightly unsavory reputation? Yes, I’d say you’re something of a puzzle.”
“Ah . . . does that mean you intend to solve me?”
“Well, I am quite fond of puzzles. . . .” Robert murmurs, a faint flush rising to his cheeks that causes Yusuf to wonder. But then traffic clears unexplicably, the Maybach accelerates, and Robert once more turns the conversation to inconsequentials.
*
“See something you like?”
When Yusuf’s eyes whip up from the menu, Robert’s looking down at his own, a tiny, almost secretive smile playing about his lips.
After reassuring himself that Robert is not flirting, Yusuf takes a quick look ‘round the bistro again. It’s what some might describe as cozy, but richly appointed in that home-y/comfortable fashion Yusuf’s seen on TV and in movies, but never in person. There are even things Yusuf recognizes as sconces.
Robert’s “usual” table is undeniably the best in the bistro, with a view of almost the whole room around them, while still providing a sense of privacy and seclusion. At least from Yusuf’s point of view. It’s almost-
Well. Certainly not romantic.
“Um.” Yusuf returns his gaze to the table and finds Robert watching him. “The menu is in Italian, and mine is a little rusty, so. . . .”
Robert laughs apologetically. “Right. Well, if you’re not too particular about anything on the menu, I recommend my absolute favorite dish. I guarantee you the best pasta primavera you’ve ever had.”
Yusuf, who’d forgotten about being hungry at all, opens his mouth to answer. Just then, his stomach growls audibly, “Um,” he says again, only slightly mortified. “Apparently my stomach is on board with the pasta primavera.”
“Good. I’ll order for us.” Robert grins and signals the discreetly hovering waiter.
*
“. . . and there was cobalt-blue smoke everywhere, and Mrs. Wright was absolutely livid,” Yusuf says, and Robert chuckles, taking a sip of his scotch. Yusuf does likewise with his sparkling water. “And that’s how I got my first and only A-minus.”
“In chemistry?”
“In, well, anything.” Yusuf twirls the last of his pasta around his fork. “Mother and Nadira thought it was quite funny. Father thought it . . . less so. But then, he had no sense of humor. Thankfully Mother had enough for them both.”
“'Had'?”
Yusuf hesitates then answers quietly. “She passed on shortly before I graduated from high school.” Another pause. “Aneurysm.”
Robert nods. “Cancer,” he says grimly.
Silence falls between them again, solemn and pensive as they both think of the mothers they've lost. It lasts through the final bites of their respective lunches . . . this time, Robert doesn’t seem to know how to break it or with what. He seems to be content with sneaking peeks at Yusuf that Yusuf only just barely catches out of the corner of his eye.
“So . . . we’ve talked about me, ad nauseam. What about you?” Yusuf ventures almost timidly, making sure to catch Robert’s darting gaze and hold it.
“Uh, heh, what about me?” Robert flushes again.
“Well, when did you first get an A-minus in school?” Yusuf asks jokingly, but the smile that it causes is anything but mirthful.
“Ah. In college, actually. In the one elective I didn’t actively hate. And it was a vast improvement over the solid C-pluses I’d gotten over the course of my academic career.” Robert laughs ruefully. “Turns out I had something of a minor knack for photography. Which, as you may have guessed, is supremely useful to a business major.”
Shifting in his seat, Yusuf realizes he’s put his foot in it. But he doesn’t know what else to ask, other than the obvious. “Do you keep up with it, then? Photography?”
Snorting, Robert knocks back the rest of his scotch. “I haven’t touched a camera in ten years,” he says flatly, emotionlessly.
“Oh.”
That charming grin makes a strained comeback that doesn't reach his eyes. “Yes, oh.”
Definitely uncomfortable now, Yusuf looks away. Catches a guy in a cheap two-piece suit staring directly at them from across the bistro, despite their secluded corner. The guy looks away quickly, sliding something into his jacket pocket. But before Yusuf can make anything of it, Robert’s clearing his throat.
“Anyway. I was going to pick your brain. . . .”
It’s another change of subject, and a welcome one. “Yeah. About Dude,” Yusuf agrees, without any anticipation. The last thing he really wants to talk about now is the magazine at which he works. Said magazine being owned by the man sitting across from him. But then he remembers that it’s imperative that he, if no one else, put Dude’s best foot forward. That this lunch may be-may only be-his chance to sell the magazine to a man who’d probably have no qualms about liquidating it, or selling it off to some corporate entity that’d change it beyond recognition and replace all of its columnists.
And all because Robert Fischer wasn’t shown that Dude is more than just a magazine . . . it’s a family. A family Yusuf cares about in a way some gold-plated fat-cat could never conceive of.
And that’s all he is, when it comes down to it, a voice reminds him. It sounds like Eames at his most forthright. Put aside the charm, the looks, the poor-little-rich-boy facade, and what you’re left with is a man who cares only for the bottom-line. Trying to make him see Dude as anything else is a waste of time. Focus on making him see how profitable a magazine it is and could be with the right amount of attention and investment. That’s the only tactic that works with his sort.
True. All of it true. And yet . . . every time Yusuf looks into Robert’s blue eyes, he manages to forget that, somehow.
“So,” he says, looking at Robert’s hair, his tie, his class ring-anywhere but his eyes. “Fire away. What do you want to know?”
*
“You’re awfully quiet. Indigestion?”
Yusuf stares at the back of the driver’s seat, stolidly refusing to let himself look at Robert. “Oh, no. Lunch was lovely. Thank you.”
“No, thank you. You’ve answered all my questions about Dude. Even the clearly uninformed ones.” Robert chuckles. “And besides that, you were a perfectly charming lunch companion. Something I rarely experience.”
Yusuf blushes and ahead of him, Ariadne murmur-sings along with whatever she’s listening to. Yusuf can't catch a word of it, though. “I’m glad I could be of use.”
A weighty silence, then: “Is that how you see me taking you to lunch? As ‘using’ you?”
“No, I-“ Yusuf risks a quick look at Robert, who’s watching him intently and unreadably. “No. I mean . . . I’m glad I was able to answer your questions, but I also . . . enjoyed your company.”
Robert’s smile-the real one, as Yusuf’s coming to think of it-makes a comeback. Makes Yusuf’s breath catch. “You know, we could continue enjoying each other’s company. How about tonight? Over dinner? Unless you have other plans. . . .”
Surprised, Yusuf swallows then swallows again, silently cursing Eames for always being right. At the same time, he is also surprised to realize, he’s blessing the man for the exact same quality. “I-I had plans, but if you have more questions about Dude. . . ?” he says softly, face aflame as he looks away.
He knows Robert doesn’t have any more questions. And the questions he had had earlier were questions Yusuf doesn’t doubt Dom could and did answer, and in much more detail than Yusuf.
Robert’s voice is wry when he answers. “Yusuf, you don’t answer a man’s Out with an In. It makes things . . . socially awkward.”
Confused, Yusuf looks up again. Robert seems amused, but his eyes haven’t lost their intensity. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“’Unless you have other plans’ was my way of giving you an Out, in case you didn’t wish to potentially extend our relationship into a more personal one. You answered my Out with an In: ‘If you have more questions about Dude. . . .'” Robert snorts again. “We both know I don’t have any other questions about Dude-I could write a goddamned thesis about Dude, by now.”
“Oh.” Yusuf can’t look away, now. His face is so hot, he knows his blush is probably showing through his complexion and his palms are sweaty to the point of grossness, it seems. His mouth is dry and the luna moths in his stomach are fluttering to get out. He wants to say something, anything, but he’s afraid if he opens his mouth, all that will come out is a belch and a moth.
“I’d hoped for a little more than ‘oh,’ again.” Robert still sounds amused, but disappointed underneath it.
Yusuf bites his lip. And still doesn’t answer. He wants to say yes. He wants to say no. He wants to open the door and roll out of the Maybach like a stuntman, jump to his feet, and run home to his tiny apartment.
But mostly, he wants to look into Robert’s eyes again, and that’s the one thing he doesn’t dare do.
“Why did you stop doing photography?”
Yusuf can feel Robert’s surprise as keenly as his own at what came out of his mouth. But there’s no taking it back, and the question feels important, somehow.
Robert sighs, seeming irritated. “Because it was a childish interest that was doomed to go nowhere, and I had more important things to do with my time.”
Now Yusuf’s the one who’s disappointed, and he bites his lip again, trying to think of a way to say no to dinner that won’t offend Robert any more deeply than he already has.
The silence between them-unhappy and uncomfortable on Yusuf’s part, annoyed and almost angry on Robert’s-spins out so powerfully, even Ariadne glances up at them in the rearview mirror. Then she goes back to head-banging with whatever’s playing on her iPod and glaring at traffic.
“And anyway,” Robert finally adds, more than a touch defensively. “It was too tempting to get wrapped up in something I loved and forget my duty to the family. To my father.”
Every word is clipped, and when an oddly relieved Yusuf steals a glance at Robert’s stony profile, that perfect mouth is pursed and grim.
“But things are different, now. You’re different.” Yusuf reaches out hesitantly then lays his hand gently on Robert’s arm. When Robert looks over at him, his gaze is so fierce, Yusuf sits back. Almost removes his hand, but Robert’s hand covers it with his own.
“I don’t even take pictures with the camera in my damn phone,” he says quietly, but just as fiercely, as if he’s trying to make Yusuf understand something crucial. And maybe Yusuf just can’t, or simply won’t understand, because for a few moments, all he can do is let Robert’s cool, strong hand hold his own and bask in Robert’s regard.
“Maybe . . . maybe you should,” he suggests tentatively, and this time Robert’s the one to sit back and look surprised. As if the thought had never occurred to him.
Perhaps it hadn’t.
Yusuf carefully extracts his hand, which tingles rather alarmingly, in a way it never has before. He has to look at it just to make sure it’s actually not on fire or something. At least, that’s what he tells himself when Robert’s eyes become too much to bear any longer.
“I,” Robert says, then clears his throat and says it again, a little more firmly. Followed by: “That is, shall I pick you up around eight? At your place?”
Relieved once more, Yusuf nods once, a little afraid of the way his whole being is in complete affirmation. “Eight is good. Um.” He unzips his backpack and roots around for a pen. What he finds instead is a blue Sharpie he doesn’t even remember buying, let alone putting in there.
Shrugging, he uncaps it with his teeth and boldly reaches over and grabs Robert’s left hand. It takes him a moment to remember his own address, but he does, and writes it on Robert’s pale-pink palm in his tiny, crabbed print. Followed quickly by his phone number. “Just ring the buzzer and I'll be right down.”
“Okay.” Robert flexes his fingers when Yusuf reluctantly lets go of his hand. Then he smiles and reads his palm, lips moving slightly. “I will.”
Yusuf caps the Sharpie and drops it back in his bag. “Or you can, you know, call me when you get there. Or any time. Just to touch base.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
They don’t speak for the rest of the ride back to the Fischer-Morrow building. Yusuf is too busy staring out the window and fighting to quash the scandalized, disbelieving Eames-voice in his head to hold any kind of decent conversation. Which leaves Robert to sneak not-so-quick glances at him and smile that wondering little smile.
The moths in Yusuf’s stomach redouble their efforts to flutter their way out.
The Eames-voice does not approve.
TBC
More Dude! Also, gratuitous picspam of how I imagine the guys for the purposes of this fic:
Dude (3/7)
Author:
_beetle_
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Robert/Yusuf, Arthur/Eames
Rating: R, so far
Word Count: Approx.
Disclaimer: Not stealing, just appreciating.
Notes: An AU where the Inception team works at a men's magazine called Dude. Previous parts hold court here.
Summary: Written for the
inception_kink prompt: Yusuf is working his first job out of college as a "fact checker" for a semi-sleazy men's magazine; doomed to spend his days researching protein bars and celebrity bra sizes. Robert Fischer is his boss whom he has a million good reasons to hate. So why doesn't he?
Yusuf expects to have to wait for Robert’s hired car to arrive-the man had insisted on sending one, despite Yusuf’s discomfited demurring-but instead finds a black Maybach idling right in front of the Fischer-Morrow building, completely disregarding zoning regulations and posted signs.
Leaning on the driver’s side door is a woman he at first takes to be a child, she’s so small. But her uniform of black chauffer's cap, black velvet jacket, black stretch-pants, and . . . black motorcycle boots, of all things, marks her as the pilot of said Maybach.
He approaches the car hesitantly, slinging his ratty Jansport over one shoulder and attempting to smooth and straighten his blue flannel shirt. The jeans, he knows, are a complete loss.
“Uh,” he says adroitly, and the driver smiles.
“Hey. You must be Yusuf. I’m Ariadne Dufresne, your driver for the afternoon.” She sketches a neat, sardonic little bow then opens the back door of the Maybach. “Slide on in and I’ll squire you guys away to your destination.”
“Uh,” Yusuf says again then conjures up a mumbled “thank you” to go with it. Ariadne dimples and twinkles up at him, and nods at the open door.
“In you go.”
“Right. Thanks.” Yusuf hurriedly slides into the car, pausing only momentarily when he sees Robert back there, reading something on his tablet and frowning.
“I’ll be all yours in just a minute,” he says absently. “Just finishing up some last minute business.”
“Oh. Take your time.” Yusuf sits, pulling his other leg into the car. The door shuts smartly behind him. Seconds later, the Maybach is pulling smoothly into traffic.
After a few moments of staring at Robert’s intent profile-is there no angle from which the man isn’t devastatingly handsome?-Yusuf refocuses on the world outside his tinted window. The scenery barely changes, as traffic is only crawling, so he sinks into the butter-soft leather of the seat and sighs happily. It’s more comfortable than his bed, which is a sprung, creaking old futon he doesn’t, after eight years, have the heart to replace.
Behind the wheel of the Maybach, her head seeming to barely clear the dashboard, Ariadne mutters ”oh, c’mon, really?” under her breath and taps the horn lightly. Ahead of them, an Audi creeps forward a few feet, the Maybach hot on its heels.
“Sorry about that. A CEO’s day is never done, apparently.”
Yusuf starts a little and laughs nervously, looking back over at Robert, who’s watching him with a small smile. The tablet is nowhere to be seen. “I, uh, would imagine not.”
“I used to feel sorry for myself that my dad never spent a lot of time with me growing up, but now I see what he was dealing with-keeping an eye on investments and acquisitions, wheeling and dealing, fending off hostile takeovers, and just keeping the company healthy and growing-“ Robert sighs, glancing out the windshield briefly, his smile turning melancholy. “I have a whole new respect for the old man.”
Uncertain what to do with this personal information, Yusuf shifts uncertainly, uncomfortably, then tentatively offers: “My father was a busy man, also, but he spent some time with me, when I was growing up. Mostly after I was in middle school. But we rarely did anything together that didn’t involve him badgering me about only being in the ninety-ninth percentile of my year. Then tutoring me until I was too tired to keep my eyes open. He was the same way with my older sister: he didn’t know how to relate to young people who weren’t students.”
“Hmm . . . my father didn’t know how to relate to anyone that wasn’t on his payroll. He didn’t seem to care about my grades before I went to the best business school his money could buy me into. And he certainly didn’t tutor me.” Robert snorts softly. “He paid someone to do that, of course.”
Yusuf tilts his head. “Does that mean that you win this round of “My Father Was An Emotionally Unavailable Bastard”?
Robert’s profile gains a slow grin, and he looks over at Yusuf. “Was I being morbid and self-pitying?”
Yusuf smiles back. “Just a tad.”
“I apologize, then, and hope you don’t think me a bore.”
“I don’t see how anyone could,” Yusuf replies then blushes, looking away from the return of that wistful smile. It does strange things to his stomach, like someone released a jar full of luna moths in his gut. “At any rate, there’s nothing to apologize for. At least not to me. We morbid and self-pitying types with daddy-issues can smell our own.”
“Indeed, we can.” Robert sounds amused, and the silence that falls between them feels charged, but not exactly uncomfortable. In the driver's seat, Ariadne’s put in hot pink earbuds, and is nodding her head and tapping the wheel in three-quarter time. The Maybach continues to inch along.
When Robert breaks the silence, it’s with a clear change of subject: “So, tell me a little bit about yourself, Yusuf. What did you go to school for? Ooh, wait-lemme guess: sociology.”
“Actually I dual-majored in physics and engineering.” Yusuf is pleased to note the surprise that momentarily flashes across Robert’s face. “I was one semester away from my first Ph.D when I . . . had a melt-down, of sorts, and eventually dropped out.”
Which is a very glossed-over way of saying I had to check myself into a psych ward for a few months before I was well enough to admit that I was ruining my life by trying to be a carbon copy of my father.
As if almost hearing what Yusuf has left unsaid, Robert frowns. “If it’s not too personal . . . why’d you drop out?”
Yusuf shrugs as if the biggest revelation of his life was a mere nothing. “I didn’t want to be like my father, either: a brilliant scientist with no room or patience for things like love, family, and an engaged life outside of lecturing and research.” He glances at Robert, who’s staring at him like he’s a puzzle that’s just starting to come together. Yusuf blushes yet again. “I want more out of my life than that.”
“Ah . . . some of the mystery unravels,” Robert says somewhat playfully, and Yusuf laughs.
“You think I’m a mystery?”
Robert’s eyebrows quirk up. “Let’s see, a Ph.D candidate with an IQ from here to the moon-don’t deny it-working as a fact-checker for a men’s magazine with a slightly unsavory reputation? Yes, I’d say you’re something of a puzzle.”
“Ah . . . does that mean you intend to solve me?”
“Well, I am quite fond of puzzles. . . .” Robert murmurs, a faint flush rising to his cheeks that causes Yusuf to wonder. But then traffic clears unexplicably, the Maybach accelerates, and Robert once more turns the conversation to inconsequentials.
*
“See something you like?”
When Yusuf’s eyes whip up from the menu, Robert’s looking down at his own, a tiny, almost secretive smile playing about his lips.
After reassuring himself that Robert is not flirting, Yusuf takes a quick look ‘round the bistro again. It’s what some might describe as cozy, but richly appointed in that home-y/comfortable fashion Yusuf’s seen on TV and in movies, but never in person. There are even things Yusuf recognizes as sconces.
Robert’s “usual” table is undeniably the best in the bistro, with a view of almost the whole room around them, while still providing a sense of privacy and seclusion. At least from Yusuf’s point of view. It’s almost-
Well. Certainly not romantic.
“Um.” Yusuf returns his gaze to the table and finds Robert watching him. “The menu is in Italian, and mine is a little rusty, so. . . .”
Robert laughs apologetically. “Right. Well, if you’re not too particular about anything on the menu, I recommend my absolute favorite dish. I guarantee you the best pasta primavera you’ve ever had.”
Yusuf, who’d forgotten about being hungry at all, opens his mouth to answer. Just then, his stomach growls audibly, “Um,” he says again, only slightly mortified. “Apparently my stomach is on board with the pasta primavera.”
“Good. I’ll order for us.” Robert grins and signals the discreetly hovering waiter.
*
“. . . and there was cobalt-blue smoke everywhere, and Mrs. Wright was absolutely livid,” Yusuf says, and Robert chuckles, taking a sip of his scotch. Yusuf does likewise with his sparkling water. “And that’s how I got my first and only A-minus.”
“In chemistry?”
“In, well, anything.” Yusuf twirls the last of his pasta around his fork. “Mother and Nadira thought it was quite funny. Father thought it . . . less so. But then, he had no sense of humor. Thankfully Mother had enough for them both.”
“'Had'?”
Yusuf hesitates then answers quietly. “She passed on shortly before I graduated from high school.” Another pause. “Aneurysm.”
Robert nods. “Cancer,” he says grimly.
Silence falls between them again, solemn and pensive as they both think of the mothers they've lost. It lasts through the final bites of their respective lunches . . . this time, Robert doesn’t seem to know how to break it or with what. He seems to be content with sneaking peeks at Yusuf that Yusuf only just barely catches out of the corner of his eye.
“So . . . we’ve talked about me, ad nauseam. What about you?” Yusuf ventures almost timidly, making sure to catch Robert’s darting gaze and hold it.
“Uh, heh, what about me?” Robert flushes again.
“Well, when did you first get an A-minus in school?” Yusuf asks jokingly, but the smile that it causes is anything but mirthful.
“Ah. In college, actually. In the one elective I didn’t actively hate. And it was a vast improvement over the solid C-pluses I’d gotten over the course of my academic career.” Robert laughs ruefully. “Turns out I had something of a minor knack for photography. Which, as you may have guessed, is supremely useful to a business major.”
Shifting in his seat, Yusuf realizes he’s put his foot in it. But he doesn’t know what else to ask, other than the obvious. “Do you keep up with it, then? Photography?”
Snorting, Robert knocks back the rest of his scotch. “I haven’t touched a camera in ten years,” he says flatly, emotionlessly.
“Oh.”
That charming grin makes a strained comeback that doesn't reach his eyes. “Yes, oh.”
Definitely uncomfortable now, Yusuf looks away. Catches a guy in a cheap two-piece suit staring directly at them from across the bistro, despite their secluded corner. The guy looks away quickly, sliding something into his jacket pocket. But before Yusuf can make anything of it, Robert’s clearing his throat.
“Anyway. I was going to pick your brain. . . .”
It’s another change of subject, and a welcome one. “Yeah. About Dude,” Yusuf agrees, without any anticipation. The last thing he really wants to talk about now is the magazine at which he works. Said magazine being owned by the man sitting across from him. But then he remembers that it’s imperative that he, if no one else, put Dude’s best foot forward. That this lunch may be-may only be-his chance to sell the magazine to a man who’d probably have no qualms about liquidating it, or selling it off to some corporate entity that’d change it beyond recognition and replace all of its columnists.
And all because Robert Fischer wasn’t shown that Dude is more than just a magazine . . . it’s a family. A family Yusuf cares about in a way some gold-plated fat-cat could never conceive of.
And that’s all he is, when it comes down to it, a voice reminds him. It sounds like Eames at his most forthright. Put aside the charm, the looks, the poor-little-rich-boy facade, and what you’re left with is a man who cares only for the bottom-line. Trying to make him see Dude as anything else is a waste of time. Focus on making him see how profitable a magazine it is and could be with the right amount of attention and investment. That’s the only tactic that works with his sort.
True. All of it true. And yet . . . every time Yusuf looks into Robert’s blue eyes, he manages to forget that, somehow.
“So,” he says, looking at Robert’s hair, his tie, his class ring-anywhere but his eyes. “Fire away. What do you want to know?”
*
“You’re awfully quiet. Indigestion?”
Yusuf stares at the back of the driver’s seat, stolidly refusing to let himself look at Robert. “Oh, no. Lunch was lovely. Thank you.”
“No, thank you. You’ve answered all my questions about Dude. Even the clearly uninformed ones.” Robert chuckles. “And besides that, you were a perfectly charming lunch companion. Something I rarely experience.”
Yusuf blushes and ahead of him, Ariadne murmur-sings along with whatever she’s listening to. Yusuf can't catch a word of it, though. “I’m glad I could be of use.”
A weighty silence, then: “Is that how you see me taking you to lunch? As ‘using’ you?”
“No, I-“ Yusuf risks a quick look at Robert, who’s watching him intently and unreadably. “No. I mean . . . I’m glad I was able to answer your questions, but I also . . . enjoyed your company.”
Robert’s smile-the real one, as Yusuf’s coming to think of it-makes a comeback. Makes Yusuf’s breath catch. “You know, we could continue enjoying each other’s company. How about tonight? Over dinner? Unless you have other plans. . . .”
Surprised, Yusuf swallows then swallows again, silently cursing Eames for always being right. At the same time, he is also surprised to realize, he’s blessing the man for the exact same quality. “I-I had plans, but if you have more questions about Dude. . . ?” he says softly, face aflame as he looks away.
He knows Robert doesn’t have any more questions. And the questions he had had earlier were questions Yusuf doesn’t doubt Dom could and did answer, and in much more detail than Yusuf.
Robert’s voice is wry when he answers. “Yusuf, you don’t answer a man’s Out with an In. It makes things . . . socially awkward.”
Confused, Yusuf looks up again. Robert seems amused, but his eyes haven’t lost their intensity. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“’Unless you have other plans’ was my way of giving you an Out, in case you didn’t wish to potentially extend our relationship into a more personal one. You answered my Out with an In: ‘If you have more questions about Dude. . . .'” Robert snorts again. “We both know I don’t have any other questions about Dude-I could write a goddamned thesis about Dude, by now.”
“Oh.” Yusuf can’t look away, now. His face is so hot, he knows his blush is probably showing through his complexion and his palms are sweaty to the point of grossness, it seems. His mouth is dry and the luna moths in his stomach are fluttering to get out. He wants to say something, anything, but he’s afraid if he opens his mouth, all that will come out is a belch and a moth.
“I’d hoped for a little more than ‘oh,’ again.” Robert still sounds amused, but disappointed underneath it.
Yusuf bites his lip. And still doesn’t answer. He wants to say yes. He wants to say no. He wants to open the door and roll out of the Maybach like a stuntman, jump to his feet, and run home to his tiny apartment.
But mostly, he wants to look into Robert’s eyes again, and that’s the one thing he doesn’t dare do.
“Why did you stop doing photography?”
Yusuf can feel Robert’s surprise as keenly as his own at what came out of his mouth. But there’s no taking it back, and the question feels important, somehow.
Robert sighs, seeming irritated. “Because it was a childish interest that was doomed to go nowhere, and I had more important things to do with my time.”
Now Yusuf’s the one who’s disappointed, and he bites his lip again, trying to think of a way to say no to dinner that won’t offend Robert any more deeply than he already has.
The silence between them-unhappy and uncomfortable on Yusuf’s part, annoyed and almost angry on Robert’s-spins out so powerfully, even Ariadne glances up at them in the rearview mirror. Then she goes back to head-banging with whatever’s playing on her iPod and glaring at traffic.
“And anyway,” Robert finally adds, more than a touch defensively. “It was too tempting to get wrapped up in something I loved and forget my duty to the family. To my father.”
Every word is clipped, and when an oddly relieved Yusuf steals a glance at Robert’s stony profile, that perfect mouth is pursed and grim.
“But things are different, now. You’re different.” Yusuf reaches out hesitantly then lays his hand gently on Robert’s arm. When Robert looks over at him, his gaze is so fierce, Yusuf sits back. Almost removes his hand, but Robert’s hand covers it with his own.
“I don’t even take pictures with the camera in my damn phone,” he says quietly, but just as fiercely, as if he’s trying to make Yusuf understand something crucial. And maybe Yusuf just can’t, or simply won’t understand, because for a few moments, all he can do is let Robert’s cool, strong hand hold his own and bask in Robert’s regard.
“Maybe . . . maybe you should,” he suggests tentatively, and this time Robert’s the one to sit back and look surprised. As if the thought had never occurred to him.
Perhaps it hadn’t.
Yusuf carefully extracts his hand, which tingles rather alarmingly, in a way it never has before. He has to look at it just to make sure it’s actually not on fire or something. At least, that’s what he tells himself when Robert’s eyes become too much to bear any longer.
“I,” Robert says, then clears his throat and says it again, a little more firmly. Followed by: “That is, shall I pick you up around eight? At your place?”
Relieved once more, Yusuf nods once, a little afraid of the way his whole being is in complete affirmation. “Eight is good. Um.” He unzips his backpack and roots around for a pen. What he finds instead is a blue Sharpie he doesn’t even remember buying, let alone putting in there.
Shrugging, he uncaps it with his teeth and boldly reaches over and grabs Robert’s left hand. It takes him a moment to remember his own address, but he does, and writes it on Robert’s pale-pink palm in his tiny, crabbed print. Followed quickly by his phone number. “Just ring the buzzer and I'll be right down.”
“Okay.” Robert flexes his fingers when Yusuf reluctantly lets go of his hand. Then he smiles and reads his palm, lips moving slightly. “I will.”
Yusuf caps the Sharpie and drops it back in his bag. “Or you can, you know, call me when you get there. Or any time. Just to touch base.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
They don’t speak for the rest of the ride back to the Fischer-Morrow building. Yusuf is too busy staring out the window and fighting to quash the scandalized, disbelieving Eames-voice in his head to hold any kind of decent conversation. Which leaves Robert to sneak not-so-quick glances at him and smile that wondering little smile.
The moths in Yusuf’s stomach redouble their efforts to flutter their way out.
The Eames-voice does not approve.
TBC