Fic: A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall, 3/10 [Inception]
Title: A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, unrequited Robert/Arthur, past Cobb/Mal, hinted Robert/Ariadne, Browning, Saito
Rating: R
Word Count: 8,487
Disclaimer: Mr. Nolan owns it all
Warnings: Violence (graphic torture), strong language, sexual content, character death
Summary: In the aftermath of World War III and the Second Civil War of the United States, the members of the dream sharing industry have been turned into fugitives, driven underground and into hiding in order to escape assassination by Fischer Industries USA - except for one, the former leading point man in the business, who has turned traitor against the fugitives Dom Cobb, Public Enemy Number one; and the infamous Eames, leader of the Resistance.
Author's Note: Written for inception_bang . Endless thanks to my wonderful beta, niftywithan who worked tirelessly in looking over drafts, and to my dear celestineangel , without whose wonderful help (read: guidance, advice, cheerleading) this labor of love would not exist. You two are absolutely amazing!! ♥ ♥ ♥
The lower levels of Fischer Industries USA looks exactly like the upper levels: the same black linoleum floors, the same glass walls; even the soft click-click-click of his Oxfords sound the same as Robert wanders aimlessly through the labyrinth of unfamiliar territory, hands stuck in his pockets and shoulders hunched, eyes gloomily glued to the floor.
I’ll have Captain Davidson relocated to the Periphery if necessary.
After Uncle Peter’s frank rebuke disguised as an admonition, Robert hasn’t seen the Captain in days, and, for lack of anything to do besides sit in his office and mope, here he is, plodding around like a lovelorn teenager. Weren’t the pubescent hormones bad enough the first time around? A small part of Robert is disgusted with his own behavior, but the larger part wants just to see the Captain again, even if just a brief glimpse, no matter what circumstances.
His footsteps slow as he passes by the room containing the confidential archives. Even though he acts as CEO in his father’s stead, Robert’s never been to this part of the complex before - but he’s pretty sure the door’s not supposed to be cracked with just a sliver of light peeking out into the otherwise dark and empty hallway. He’s also pretty sure he’s not supposed to be hearing what sounds like the whir of a copier, and he hopes that his eyes are deceiving him as to the identity of the individual standing with his back to the door, copying sensitive files and secure information for various reasons, all of which make Robert’s stomach turn.
"I'd advise you not to take another step, Mr. Fischer."
Robert swallows thickly. Suddenly, the room seems too small, too cloistered, too nightmarish to be real. "What are you doing?"
"A good question." The fax machine whirrs and beeps as the documents are scanned and then sent to an unknown recipient, and although he's been caught, the Captain shows neither any sign of distress nor any indication of stopping. His voice is cool, calm as he works quickly and efficiently, without cease, his back still turned Robert. "But you already know the answer to that, don't you?"
"I should turn you in."
The speed with which the Captain moves is dizzying; Robert blinks and suddenly he sees a flash of death: a Glock 17 with a silencer, so very much like the Captain himself - silent, deadly, and deceptively sleek. The Captain's eyes are even darker in the dim light, and they bore into Robert, unblinking and terrifying. "But will you?"
His words are a knife in the gut. Robert finds that he’s unable to formulate a reply, unable to speak in response to the challenge because suddenly he sees why the Captain is such a dangerous, capable soldier, how all the mystery and intrigue lends itself to more than just myth, how the same man he once witnessed shedding a tear over classical music can kill with nothing but his bare hands. And now, even though it’s pointed down and toward the floor, the Captain has a gun.
The long pause stretches out between them as the documents finish faxing with a final whir, and the Captain sweeps them all into a neat pile with one hand, never once taking his eyes off Robert, his expression unchanging and unreadable. Finally finding his voice, Robert speaks, and it’s a barely audible whisper: “Are you going to kill me?”
“No.” The answer is curt but honest and without any trace of deceit. But Robert doesn’t know what to believe anymore.
“Then why the gun?”
Captain Davidson glances toward the weapon in his hand, as if noticing its presence for the first time. “Pretense.” He unscrews the silencer from the muzzle with quick fingers, and puts both pieces of metal away equally swiftly. “Propriety.” Reaching behind him, he retrieves his gloves and slips them on over his hands, pale skin disappearing beneath black leather. “Protection.”
He steps forward soundlessly and Robert takes an instinctive step back, breath catching in his throat out of terror, viewing this handsome shadow dressed in Fischer Industries USA’s dark green double-breasted uniform jacket and black trousers in an entirely new light. His eyes rove nervously over the hands gloved in black and combination cap pulled down low over his dark eyes, wondering crazily if the Captain would be placing a kiss on his cheek next, whispering Hail Master, hail friend.
And what is he to say in return? Et tu, Brute?
The Captain closes the distance between them and Robert is barely breathing; the other man stands so close that Robert can smell the other man’s aftershave, and the Captain’s voice is low, so low and his breath is a caress against Robert’s ear: “It wasn’t my intention for you to find out this way, Mr. Fischer.” A pause, then, “In fact, I would have rather you not find out at all.”
Robert gasps - “Captain-” but he’s already gone.
- - - - -
“Moshi moshi?”
“My cover’s been blown.” The Captain’s voice is hushed and urgent as he speaks into the phone, uncharacteristically anxious.
The man on the other end of the line offers a chuckle. “Well, Captain, I trust you can deal with-”
“-by Robert Fischer.”
“Kuso.” The curse crackles through the connection, and there’s the sound of something breaking. After a beat, the man speaks again. “Do not draw any attention to yourself, then. I still need you to remain in your role.”
“I can’t stay here! Did you hear me? I’ve been made by Robert Fischer! I need to get out!”
“Not yet, I’m afraid. The senior Fischer is reorganizing his Board of Directors; if you disappear now, it will arouse his suspicion. Just lie low. I will contact you shortly.”
The line goes dead with a sharp click and Arthur stares at the phone in his hand, seething. “Son of a bitch!”
- - - - -
“Son of a bitch.”
Peter shakes his head, immensely pleased with himself. “Bring him here,” he orders, and the spy reporting back on Robert nods, turns on his heel, and exits the office to do as he’s told. Leaning back in his leather chair, Peter throws his head back with a great guffaw, one step away from rubbing his hands together like a gleeful child.
So, the illustrious Captain Davidson is not all he seems. Normally, Peter would be miffed at having so poorly judged the character of an employee, but right now, the glee overrides the vexation at such a prosperous and fortuitous discovery. Stealing from the private archives? You’re mine, Captain, Peter grins, baring his teeth like a predator down at the large 8x11 glossed photo of the man in question before flipping the file folder closed, reaching for a cigarillo, lighting up with gusto and inhaling deeply.
Ah, the sweet, sweet taste of victory.
Disappointingly enough, when Davidson enters into the office not long after, he still looks as impeccable as always, bearing no bruises or any other signs of a struggle. Clearly he came willingly, and Peter shrugs off the slight chagrin because oh, the dear Captain will be boasting some bruises, all right (and them some), by the time he’s done. Rising up from behind his desk, he straightens his suit jacket, pulling himself up to his full height and nodding at his two men standing on either side of the Captain. “Search him.”
The Captain’s face is impassive during the rather humiliating and less than gentle search of his person, dark eyes never leaving their fixed point on the wall somewhere behind Peter’s head as he’s stripped of his weapons: two standard issue firearms, a backup strapped to either ankle, an M9 bayonet knife at his waist, a smaller hunting blade hidden in his boot, and what looks like a garrote wire concealed at his wrist. He doesn’t react as Peter steps in close and blows a mouthful of smoke straight in his face, doesn’t even so much as blink.
“If I may remind you, Captain, stealing company secrets is not one of your duties,” he sneers, and leans in close, getting right in the other man’s face, “so allow me to correct your wrongdoings.”
There are no cameras in Peter Browning’s office, no eyes to capture or witness anything that might go on behind the walls - the only ones in the main building of the entire Fischer Industries USA complex that aren’t glass. And Peter takes full advantage of it.
His fist meets the Captain’s gut in a swift, underhand punch at the same time that from behind, one of his men kicks the back of the Captain’s knee, and Davidson goes down, breath caught in a slight grunt, one arm curled around his midsection. Peter brings up his knee sharply and nods in satisfaction at the sight of red (damn, that’ll have to be dry-cleaned), leans down and lets his jovial façade drop. “Steal from me, Captain,” he hisses, “and I won’t even give you the pleasure of dying.” He flicks the cigarillo and watches the ashes drift down onto the Captain’s bent head with disdain. “Oh no, you little rat, I’m going to take my sweet time-”
Captain Davidson stretches, straightens, and then strikes.
One hand shoots out and grabs either guard behind the knee, jerking forward sharply; one falls forward, arms windmilling wildly, and bashes his head on the corner of Peter’s fine teak desk. The other falters but recovers his balance, reaching for his sidearm -too late though, as a fist smashes into his face, pushing his nose back into his brain, and he too plummets like a stone. Peter’s backed up against his desk, cigarillo falling to the floor and crushed underfoot as he scrabbles for one of the Captain’s many weapons laid out on the desk - freezing when the cold, cold metal of a muzzle presses against the underside of his jaw.
“But can you prove it?” Captain Davidson asks smoothly, not even out of breath although blood flows in a steady stream from his nose, down his chin, staining his uniform. “Can you prove it like I can prove Dominic Cobb was framed for starting the Second Civil War?” The revolver mousegun (where the hell had he been hiding that?) in his hand digs into the fleshy skin at Peter’s neck; and the businessman is terrified to move his head or even speak.
The Captain’s eyes are furious, burning despite his otherwise composed appearance, and his voice drips hatred and contempt. “I know who the real culprits are, you son of a bitch-” Here, he jams the gun even deeper, and Peter may or may not have squeaked. “-and unlike you, who have nothing on me, I have proof to back my claim.” With blood staining his parted lips and that timbre of voice, the Captain is the stuff of nightmares, a demon cloaked in the flesh of a man, or a seriously pissed off soldier forced to turn traitor on his own people to work for the enemy. “Project Extraction,” he growls, “Motion 528-491.”
Peter Browning’s stomach bottoms out.
“Tell me why people go missing, Browning, missing by the handful every three months from Fisher Industries USA encampments? Grounds that are supposed. To. Be. Secure?” Each word is enunciated by a rather painful prod of the muzzle of the revolver against the jugular. “Tell me exactly how tourists become the way they are. Explain how more and more of them come crawling out of the Periphery every three months, wrecked out of their minds, why don’t you?”
“I - I don’t know what-”
“Please. Don’t. Insult. Me.” For a moment then, the Captain looks like he’s seriously considering pulling the trigger right then and there, staring down at the other man with dark eyes, an avenging angel passing judgment and finding Peter Browning guilty and unworthy of mercy. “You and Maurice Fischer’s dirty little secret, and now I’m not the only one who knows.” Fishing into his pocket, the Captain retrieves a small flash drive, displays it with aplomb. Peter pales, and Davidson presses the muzzle of the gun against his forehead, forcing him back around the desk and into his desk chair. “Sit.” Fingers finding the grip of his previously divested Glock 17, the Captain raises the sidearm and points it. “How very convenient of you not to have functioning cameras in your office, Mr. Browning.”
“You wouldn’t,” Peter sputters, and the Captain smiles dangerously, all teeth and sharp, biting cynicism.
“I’ve killed more men than you’ve met in your entire lifetime,” he says casually, eyes narrowing. “Don’t presume to know what I will or will not do.” The gun is steady in his grip, an instrument of death in the hands of Azrael himself.
“You’re done for, Davidson,” Peter says desperately, grasping at straws in an attempt to sound threatening. “As soon as you turn your back, I’ll have you reduced to a bloody smear on the floor for the janitors to deal with!”
Captain Davidson smirks. Blood stains his teeth. “Well then, I’ll just have to keep that from happening, won’t I?”
* - * - *
Scotty Henderson adjusts the visor of the cap down over his eyes; a small drizzle wets his shoulders, having started only a couple of minutes ago and with the crap headlights on the old Jeep he’s driving, he knows to take it slowly so he won’t careen off the edge of a ravine or into a ditch. He’d just finished taking driver’s ed the summer World War III broke out, and he still drives with his hands at the customary ten and two position - so he slows the half-decrepit vehicle down to a mere twenty-five miles per hour, grimacing slightly at the sputtering of the engine.
Well. At least he has a vehicle. He’s already been on the road for about two days, and has yet to arrive at camp (although he knows he’s getting close) and can’t imagine having to navigate back to Sherwood Base from Fischer Industries USA headquarters on foot, battling the elements, and with nothing but the clothes on his back and his discharge papers.
He shakes his head, still bewildered by the course of events that’d happened to him during the past few days. Eames had sent him to spy and report back on Fischer Industries USA’s new Head of Security due to the fact that he’s young, mildly handsome and overall competent, observant, and good at doing things quickly and quietly and without having to be asked twice - the typical grunt worker, forever destined to be ignored and left in the shadows. He’d fit in perfectly as a lowly security guard within the complex, where he was able to ask about the infamous Captain Davidson, striking up conversation with others who were all too willing to gossip about their mysterious superior, gleaning what he could through the grapevine and sending back encoded bits and pieces of what he picked up.
In the sparse three weeks since his employment (all the necessary paperwork had been a bitch to submit, but Eames isn’t blacklisted as the best forger in the world for nothing), Scotty only ever got within fifty feet of the man and it had been a couple of mornings ago, when the Captain approached him first - and nearly gave him a heart attack.
“Scottsdale Anders Henderson?”
Fuck. Fuckity fucking fuck. He knows. How does he know?! Shit, shit, shit. “Yes sir, that’s me.”
The Captain’s face is impassive as he stands at least half a head above the other, eyes narrowed sharply, and Scotty can feel himself shrinking pathetically under the penetrating stare, nervously eyeing the two standard sidearms strapped to either side of the Captain’s belt - great, he’s ambidextrous - and trying very, very hard not to fall to his knees right then and there, begging for mercy or for a swift and (relatively) painless death.
“I’m relieving you of duty, Henderson.”
His knees are literally knocking together. “Sir?” he squeaks, and flinches as the Captain pulls out a sheaf of papers, desperately fighting the hormones being pumped out into his system that are making his muscles tense and brain shriek, Run you idiot, run if you want to live!
Scotty doesn’t run though, even though he’d been the star sprinter on his high school’s track team even as a freshman, because he knows that Captain Davidson would put a bullet in his skull even before he could get the chance to move two feet toward any exit. The stories are no exaggeration, the myths only all too real, and Scotty would rather not be another statistic in the Captain’s rather impressive track record of kills, thanks very much.
“I reviewed your file and found a deficiency in your eyesight test.” The Captain hands him the documents, cream-colored pieces of paper passing from black gloves to shaking hands. “I’m sorry, but we have to let you go. I’ve arranged to give you a vehicle to aid you on your journey back home. Fishcer Industries thanks you for your service.” With that, he turns smartly on his heel and starts to walk away on silent feet.
Scotty gapes after him, swallows twice, and finally gets his vocal cords to work. “T-that’s it?”
The other man pauses, turns, and raises an eyebrow; Scotty literally takes a step backwards. Then, miraculously - or maybe it’s just a trick of the light - the Captain’s eyes soften ever so slightly, and he inclines his head toward the door on the other side of the dining hall. “Go.”
Scotty doesn’t have to be told twice.
I shouldn’t even be alive, he muses as he flicks another glance at the discharge papers that do indeed cite apparent color blindness as the reason for his swift discharge. In reality, Scotty can tell red and blue and green apart just fine, and he purses his lips thoughtfully. Maybe Eames is right about Arthur Davidson, former Captain of the Marine Corps and current Head of Security of Fischer Industries; he certainly doesn’t seem like the mighty tyrant or merciless killer that Gordon always makes him out to be. Through his observations, Scotty never saw anything in the Captain’s demeanor that suggested-
PFT-ssssss.
“Oh, fucking- seriously?” Yes, seriously, apparently, and Scotty throws his hands up in disgust. “Goddamn it.” He stops the Jeep with a scowl and climbs out of the driver’s seat, grumbling as he reaches into his back pocket for the small penlight, crouching down in the mud to inspect the flat tire. He should’ve expected something like this to happen driving through the woods and on the back roads of nowhere, and with a heavy sigh, he stands up, praying that the old Jeep still has a spare and, if he’s lucky, maybe a jack.
Turns out, his luck has just about run out - another soft pft sounds out into the night, this one much quieter than its predecessor, and Scotty falls face first into the mud. He lies there unmoving, a small, perfect circle in the base of his skull.
A dark figure flips and drops gracefully out of a tree fifty feet away from the idling Jeep and fallen body, calmly dissembling an M40 rifle - the standard issue sniping weapon of the United States Marine Corps - and begins to whistle quietly, a rather old and haunting melody, and the notes of Edif Piaf’s Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien shiver in the chill air.
- - - - -
“-scheming son of a WHORE!”
Ariadne frowns up at the canvas roof of the tent and sits up at the rather rude impromptu wakeup call, swinging her legs over the side of the cot to slip her bare feet into her boots, grabbing a thin jacket and slipping it around her shoulders before venturing outside, blinking blearily. It’s an overcast day, with barely any sunlight peeking through the clouds (it had rained last night; Ariadne fell asleep listening to the soft pitter-patter of droplets overhead), and as soon as she rubs the sleep out of her eyes, she sees the source of all the noise.
Eames is pacing back and forth - more like stomping, really - like a caged tiger, red in the face and yelling out obscenities right and left. He looks like he just rolled out of bed too, hair sticking up in odd directions, waving his hands around. It would be comical if it weren’t for the unmistakable anger contorting his features as he rages and shouts at Cobb, who stands there, shoulders stiff and features looking as if they’ve been carved out of stone. Between them, on the slightly soggy ground, lies a black tarp, bulging slightly upwards in various places.
“Scotty was just a kid; he was a bloody kid!!” Eames roars, a vein pulsing in his forehead, cords standing out in his neck. “That bloody bastard, he-”
“This isn’t Arthur’s doing,” Cobb breaks in, features hard but troubled. “It’s sloppy, Eames. And there’s no way he could or would have-”
“It’s his name and signature on the official release forms,” Eames snaps, waving around a sheaf of papers that might’ve once been neat but are now crumpled in one fist. “He’s fucking toying with us! Some fucking release, that sick fucker!!”
“Eames-”
“Disemboweled, Cobb! And we still haven’t found his head! How the bloody hell am I supposed to send Scotty’s body back to his mum without his fucking head?!”
Ariadne doesn’t bother sticking around to hear any more. Clapping a hand to her mouth, she stumbles backwards and retreats back into her tent. Without even bothering to remove her boots, she climbs back between the sheets, pulls the coverlet over her head, squeezes her eyes shut, and shivers.
* - * - *
Goddamn it, Robert. Man up.
The gun lies innocuously in its cushioned box, merely metal cylinders and sleek barrels, pin locks and magazine, trigger and bits of lead - just an object because it’s not guns that kill people, but other people, and Robert reaches out, closes his fingers around the grip, and breathes out a shaky sigh. Alright. You can do this.
The walk to his intended destination is a long one, made only all the more tedious by the clumsy weapon he holds awkwardly facing away from his person at all times, like one might do with an infant that’s just spit up or a particularly disgusting bag of garbage. That and the fact that Robert really would rather not go confront Captain Davidson, given that he’s fairly sure the other man could kill him and hide all the evidence rather effortlessly. It’s a small detail that Robert decides not to dwell upon, if only for the sake of keeping his composure, and, as he nears the Captain’s small closet office - a far cry from his own spacious workspace - he takes a deep breath, steels his nerves, and tries to ignore the tiny fluttering of fear in his stomach, fear tinged with the open wound of betrayal that has haunted him for two days now.
“Captain?”
His voice doesn’t shake, and Robert silently congratulates himself as he slips past the cracked door - he’s always been exceedingly slender in build - and steps slowly into the room. “Captain Davidson?”
This sad excuse for a workspace really is a broom closet, stripped bare of any and all décor, barely seven by ten feet in size. A bunk stands pushed against the far wall, too small for any grown man, and everywhere Robert glances, he’s surrounded by drab grey walls reminiscent of the inside of a prison cell. A desk occupies the most space, cold metal instead of the fine mahogany Robert owns; the chair sits pushed slightly away from the table as if its occupant had left in a hurry and hadn’t bothered with putting it back into place - or with concealing or even straightening the materials strewn across the desktop, either.
Gun held loosely in one hand, Robert edges closer to the desk, his curiosity getting the better of him - after all, that’s why he’s here: to discover exactly what the other man had been doing when Robert stumbled upon him a couple of days prior, and to deal with it in the fastest and best way possible. It’s his responsibility to do so, as head of Fischer Industries USA - and it’s his only chance to ensure that the Captain isn’t executed for his apparent treason, because that’s what Maurice Fischer would insist upon. Robert hasn’t forgotten Uncle Peter’s threat to exile the Captain out to the Periphery either, and he can only hope he’s the first to have picked up on the Captain’s actions.
While the aforementioned punishments may suit the crime, Robert can’t think of a single thing that could possibly justify ending the Captain’s life - because Arthur Davidson is a good man, and deserves so much better than that.
Despite his apparent underhanded dealings, the Captain is the most upstanding individual Robert has ever met. He doesn’t fool around with flattery or anything else so artificial or insincere for the sake of appearances, saying exactly what he means every time he opens his mouth or choosing to stay silent otherwise. He comes across as extremely skilled and tenacious in ethic, meticulous in his actions, a soldier through and through, standing as a solid pillar of immovable strength and straightforward principle - none of which is an act and reflects his character truthfully and without the slightest hint of exaggeration.
One doesn’t come across such people very often nowadays, not when brother abandons brother, a husband his wife, and a mother her children. And the thought of executing the man who has stood for close to two solid months as a protector and silent supporter by his side, the very notion of seeing him standing in front of a firing squad, getting punched full of lead and crumbling to the ground like a broken marionette makes bile rise up in the back of Robert’s throat and turns his stomach.
Captain Davidson hadn’t killed Robert when he clearly had so many chances to do so, and if nothing else, Robert is determined to return the favor.
There’s nothing on the desktop suitable for indictment or exoneration though, and Robert cocks his head as he takes in the spread of missives, photographs, and tokens of a life destroyed long ago, memories and clues as to the identity of the man who knows (at least) one of Vivaldi’s Concertos by name, ear, and heart, the man who dons uniform handsomely but wears a three piece suit like a second skin, composed of all lean lines and sharp angles and thin white pinstripes, the man who calls himself Captain and presents himself to the world with a stern, impassive face and uncanny ability to kill.
His fingers brush against the edges of what look like an odd combination of letters, some written on worn pieces of yellowed paper, ink faded slightly with age and beginning to tear at the creases from being read so many times (My dearest Arthur-, Darling-, Dear Uncle Arthur-); others are printed on crisp white sheets, blocky font marching in straight lines across the top (To Whom it May Concern-, Captain Arthur Lawrence Davidson-, Dear Sir, We regret to inform you-). Flicking his gaze to the side, his eyes drift across a photograph of two beautiful children with cornsilk hair and wide, innocent eyes; they pass over an image of the Captain with his arm around a radiant pregnant woman with a beautiful smile (a woman Robert knows from autopsy reports as Dominic Cobb’s late wife - executed by firing squad for conspiracy against Fischer Industries and treason against the United States of America). There’s a ticket stub from what looks like a deployment to a military base in Nevada, a hotel bill from The -- in Cabo, California, July 25, 2010, and finally, smack dab right in the middle of the desk, lies a photograph that makes Robert stop and take notice.
Dressed in a sharp tuxedo and with his hair slicked back professionally per usual, there’s no mistaking the Captain- but in the soft smile pulling at his lips, in the stunning and most uncharacteristic vulnerability in his eyes as he gazes fondly and almost tenderly at the other man in the photo (a scruffy, ruggedly handsome man who’s smiling right back, one hand slung casually around the Captain’s slim shoulders), Robert sees not a soldier or traitor, but Arthur Lawrence Davidson himself.
A sound behind Robert draws his attention and he half-turns, startled - and then he’s bent over the desk before he can comprehend what’s going on, face pressed down against the cold metal by a strong hand on the back of his neck and with his arm twisted behind him at an awkward angle. For a brief moment, Robert panics and thinks about struggling before the gun is plucked from his grasp by deft, unmistakable fingers and he recognizes his captor.
“A gun doesn’t become you, Mr. Fischer,” the Captain comments smoothly, stepping back and letting up him.
Robert rubs his wrist (that’s probably going to bruise) and neck gingerly, watching the Captain remove the gun’s magazine, pocket the bullets, and disassemble the weapon all in under five seconds. “I thought it best.”
“For what?”
His reply is quiet and uncertain, an echo of the other man’s words from only a couple of days ago. “For protection.” He keeps his eyes glued to the materials on the desk, fighting to keep his nerves in check and his tone conversational. “Still working, Captain?” He chances a glance upwards when a gloved hand descends to cover the spread. “You don’t sleep, do you?”
Dark eyes cut in his direction, suddenly world-weary, but still as sharp as ever. “Chronic insomnia,” the Captain snaps, curtly. “It happens after two wars, back to back.” Robert involuntarily steps back at the obvious bite, hands automatically rising up in the universal gesture of calm and surrender, and the action elicits a shake of the head. “Put your hands down. I’m not here to kill you.”
“Then why are you still here?”
Captain Davidson sighs, scrubs wearily at his face with the palm of his hand - the most human gesture Robert has ever seen him perform, looks up - and lunges like a panther, tackling Robert to the floor with impossible grace just as the wall behind their heads explodes with the impact of bullets. “DOWN!!”
The Captain moves like a whip - fluidly and with practiced ease, picking himself up from shielding Robert’s frame and slipping seamlessly into the next step, footwork never once faltering. One foot kicks the desk towards the door, closing it halfway; one hand grabs the bunk by its posts and knocks it over; the other grabs Robert by the collar and drags him behind the poor cover. “Stay down,” he orders in a hiss of breath, releasing his charge as he drops into a half-crouch and draws a gun from his shoulder holster. “Stay down and don’t move.”
Robert can only nod at the directive, having gotten the wind knocked out of him by the hard fall and rather painful landing, breath coming in uneven, ragged gasps fueled by a heady rush of adrenaline and fear. A single lock of dark hair falls over Captain Davidson’s forehead and he shakes the unruly strands out of the way with a small flick of his head, eyes trained on the cracked door as he rises from his haunches. Robert’s eyes are fixed on the Captain and the straight line of his clean-shaven jaw, the steady set of his shoulders, the rise and fall of his chest as he waits, silent and motionless, a living statue carved out of a strange mix of marble and flesh and blood.
Then, in a flash of movement, the Captain rises up, fires only one shot (Robert flinches at the sound) - and then ducks back behind the overturned bunk. From somewhere out in the hallway there comes an ominous thud, and Robert doesn’t have to be a soldier with a trained ear and a sixth sense honed to perfection to know the sound of a body falling. He’s witnessed Death moving about before.
Threat now apparently exterminated, Robert makes as if to get up, the muscles in one leg cramped and entire body still as tense as a tightly coiled spring - but Captain Davidson holds out a halting hand, motioning without words, wait. Lean frame taut in anticipation, the Captain’s fingers flex against the grip of the gun as he straightens ever so slightly, emerging from behind the cover. The hand drops down to Robert’s shoulder, squeezing absent-mindedly, and Robert tenses as the touch burns through the fabric of his clothes, through his skin, down to the bone.
BANG.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Captain Davidson makes no sound as he falls, thrown back by the momentum of the impacting bullet, red blossoming from the angry gash on the left side of his torso; his fingers whisper in the tiniest of rustle of skin against cloth as they go slack, drag across Robert’s shoulder, and then slip limply down the length of his upper arm.
“Oh God. Oh, fuck…Captain-” Robert blurts out incoherently, terror overriding every other instinct as he gapes at the Captain’s fallen form. Scrambling, he crawls over to the body, knees hitting the rapidly spreading puddle of crimson and reaches out shaking hands to frantically feel for a pulse, clumsy fingers slipping in his panic. “Please, please, oh God-”
The cold muzzle of a gun presses against the back of his head and Robert freezes, his fingers still splayed against Captain Davidson’s jaw. “Stand up.”
He does as he’s told, standing stiffly, heart in his throat. What else can he do, when his bodyguard lies motionless at his feet? A hand grabs his shoulder - the fingers thick and the grip rough, so very different from the Captain’s reassuring squeeze from just moments prior - and shoves him toward the door. “Get over there.”
He stumbles forward, hands raised up on either side of his head, and at the all too familiar click of the hammer of a gun being pulled back, Robert’s shoulders tense in anticipation of the executioner’s bullet - which doesn’t come. After a moment, he chances a glance over his shoulder and sees the assassin on one knee beside Captain Davidson’s body, an oddly contemplative look on his face, and Robert’s chest clenches tight as the gun descends and traces the slack features - over his closed eyelids, muzzle traveling the outline of his lips, skating back and forth along his cheekbone and down along his jaw - a parody of a lover’s caress.
“Arthur Davidson,” the assassin drawls, a hint of the south evident in his accent, rolling the name over and over his tongue as if tasting each syllable. “Got myself a looker this time,” he laughs, and grabs the Captain’s jaw, turning his lolling head this way and that, like one might display a particularly fine horse. “Wonder how much this pretty little head is worth?”
Still horrified by Captain Davidson’s untimely death, Robert doesn’t fully grasp the meaning of the other man’s words until he pulls out the carving knife strapped to his belt and starts to look the Captain over like a Virginia ham. Oh, then, Robert’s blood starts to absolutely boil. “Get your hands off of him.”
The assassin flashes him a cocky grin, and places the knife against Captain Davidson’s neck, letting the sharp blade just barely kiss pale skin. “If you wanted a piece of him for yourself, you should’ve taken him when you had the chance, lover boy.” He stands slowly, tilting his head to the side and running his eyes up and down Robert’s form. “Well, look at that. Two for the price of one.”
“Go to hell,” Robert spits in response, and the assassin laughs.
“Look around you, boy. We’re already in Hell.” He advances forward a step, boot leaving behind a red print on the floor, and Robert’s anger begins simmering into a sickly fear. “Davidson might be dead - but you, little Fischer - you ain’t so bad lookin’ yourself.” Another grin reveals yellow teeth. “Good enough to eat or - FUCK!!”
Robert, by now having flattened himself against the wall, gapes as the assassin pitches forward, an M9 bayonet knife sticking out of the back of his knee. As soon as the man’s knees hit the floor, a pair of black gloved hands reach up out of nowhere, grabbing forehead and chin -
Crack.
“Captain.” Robert’s head spins with an odd combination of nausea, confusion, and elation; he doesn’t even know he’s moving until he’s right by the Captain’s side, one hand reaching out to grab the other man’s arm to validate, to reassure, to touch and breathe a sigh of relief. His hand comes away warm and slippery though, and he swears. “Shit, Captain-”
“It’s fine. Just a graze-” Robert pulls the silk pocket square out of his suit jacket and presses it against the sluggishly leaking wound, eliciting a hiss. As the Captain sways slightly on his feet, Robert boldly throws the other man’s arm around his shoulders.
“I’m taking you to the hospital wing,” he decides aloud. The Captain slumps slightly with a soft sigh and Robert’s concern heightens; his step quickens.
He tries not to look at the two fallen bodies as they pass by.
- - - - -
His suit is completely ruined, covered in blood, none of which is his.
Robert stands in a pair of nursing scrubs (his oxford shirt is also encrusted with dried blood, now turning a dull brown from its previously white color, completely unsalvageable), quietly watching the physicians on the other side of the glass observation window suturing the deep gash in the Captain’s ribs. He’d been right, the Captain; the wound is nothing but a graze, but it’s a pretty damn deep laceration to have produced that much blood, and it takes twenty-three stitches to close, black thread against pale skin.
Robert counts each and every one.
The door opens and Dr. Keiser steps into the observation room, stripping off his green neoprene gloves. “It would be best to take it easy, Mr. Fischer. The Captain needs to rest.”
“I understand, doctor. Thank you.”
He moves quietly into the room, steps muffled but not entirely silent, dodging the nurses cleaning up piles of bloody gauze and tidying up the space, waiting until the small hubbub of energy leaves the room with the last nurse wheeling the small tray of operating instruments out the door before moving towards the bed, steps muffled but not entirely silent. The Captain lies against the white sheets, eyes closed, an IV in his wrist and bandages wrapped around his ribs - so still, so unguarded, so strange. “Captain?”
Dark eyelashes flutter, and then open as Captain Davidson blinks blearily, roving around for a moment before settling on Robert. “Mr. Fischer.” A beat passes, then, bluntly: “You look terrible.”
His words are halting, his speech slightly slurred, and Robert glances at the IV drip, where some type of painkiller must be to blame. “Thank you for protecting me,” he says quietly, for lack of other words, and because it has to be said.
The Captain tips his head back again, baring a long white expanse of his throat. “It’s my job,” he mumbles noncommittally, “to protect everyone. To make sure the job goes right.”
The honesty of the statement strikes Robert to the core, and he realizes this could be his only chance to discover the truth, if ever. His mind races, and, stupidly, the only thing he comes up with is: “It was, wasn’t it? When you were a point man?”
“When I was a point man,” the Captain repeats and ducks his head. A wry smile twists his lips, something bitter and haunted, and Robert’s fingers twitch, itching to stretch out and smooth it away.
“Is that what you’re doing now?” he asks gently instead, moving closer until he can smell blood mingled with sweat and antiseptic. “Collecting intel for someone else?” The Captain frowns, blinks owlishly, and Robert quickly bites the inside of his cheek to hide a smile, because although this is neither the time nor place, the word adorable rises to the forefront of his mind.
“You can’t be doing this for personal gain,” he continues, confident of the truth in his words. “Otherwise, you would’ve already killed me or let me die. So why are you doing this? Selling company secrets and planning to sabotage Fischer Industries USA?”
The only response is none at all, and Robert moves before he can hesitate, sitting down carefully on the edge of the bed. The Captain watches him without any wariness or suspicion, simply a naked interest that seems more suited to that of a child. “Are - are you in trouble, Captain?” His treacherous hand reaches out upon its own accord, but he stops himself before he does anything foolish and quickly retracts it. “Is that why? Can I help you?”
Captain Davidson cocks his head slightly, and Robert finds himself trapped under the dark gaze, foggy with medication but surprisingly lucid. “Why are you doing this, Mr. Fischer?” His fingers, long and elegant, toy distractedly with the edge of the bedspread. “Helping people to whom you owe no claim?”
Robert frowns, sidelined by the straightforward inquiry. The Captain must be really out of it. “Have you seen what’s going on here? They need all the help they can get!”
“Yes, I have,” is the prompt reply, in a voice that Robert knows he won’t forget for a long, long time - tired and weary, but with an undercurrent of quiet strength that indicates the speaker is the furthest thing from resigned. “I’ve been out there. I’ve seen the depravity and the wretchedness, the filth and the need - and you haven’t.”
The words aren’t accusatory or unkind, but simply the truth - and that hurts most of all. “You haven’t seen anything beyond the four walls of this building for years,” the Captain says, slowly raising himself up and away from the pillows at his back, and Robert would tell him to be careful, but his throat is too dry. “You go on blind faith, hoping and praying that whenever you sign your name on a slip of paper, that a convoy of supplies will get sent, that you’re helping people, that you’re doing the right thing.” He draws in a ragged breath. “But you don’t know.”
The next thing Robert knows, Captain Davidson’s leaned in so close he can see his reflection in those dark eyes, and his breath stutters in his throat. “Why do you think Browning watches your every move?” Another deep breath, this one accompanied by a grimace. “Why do you think you’re never allowed outside; why your windows are tinted so dark that you can’t see anything?”
“Captain, maybe you should-”
The Captain shakes his head. “Why do you think,” he says in a low voice, “your father doesn’t want you back?”
Robert flinches, and then stands up off the bed. It’s the anesthesia; it must be, his mind blares, and he tries to force the uncomfortable question to the back of his mind, asking one of his own, this time more forcefully. “Who are you working for?”
The other man leans back, sweat beaded on his brow, clearly spent. “I can’t tell you that.” His tone has dulled, quieted, giving no indication of the intensity of his previous cross-examination, and Robert takes the chance to gain the upper hand.
“Is it Cobb? Are you still loyal to him?”
“Of course I’m loyal to Cobb. I always will be.”
Robert stares. “But…your polygraph test-”
A half-chuckle, half-groan breaks from Captain Davidson’s lips. “You don’t think I know how to lie well enough to beat a machine?”
It’s the utter sincerity and frankness of the claim that makes the connection, and Robert opens his mouth, closes it, and tries again. “You…you were…partners?” he asks quietly, eyes straying downwards.
“Yes.”
Of course. Of course. Robert feels like hitting himself, repeatedly. Of course - what else could inspire such loyalty? He’d been a fool. He’d been such an idiot.
“Oh,” the Captain says suddenly, eyebrows quirking upwards, eyes fixed on Robert’s face - where he’s sure there must be any number of emotions ranging from shame to guilt to anger directed at himself. “Wait. No.” A small smile tugs at his lips, quiet amusement at some private joke, eyes filled suddenly with nostalgia and warmth, crinkling at the corners. “Not that way,” he huffs good-naturedly, sitting up and leaning forward towards Robert.
Apparently, though, the painkiller is pretty damn strong - strong enough to confuse a man of Captain Davidson’s mental and physical strength because the Captain misjudges the distance between his feet, the floor, the length of his own legs, and the space between the bed and Robert - and pitches forward without the slightest bit of grace or poise.
Robert catches him quite easily, arms encircling the slender but muscled torso, mindful of the bandages. His hold is careful and somewhat hesitant as he supports the Captain’s shoulders, ready to lower him back down against the pillows. To his surprise, the Captain quietly breathes out a sigh, muscles relaxing and turning his head slightly to lay his cheek on Robert’s shoulder, going slack in the embrace.
For just a moment, Robert forgets how to breathe.
“You’re a good man, Mr. Fischer,” the Captain says, the words a barely audible murmur. “And I’m not the type of man who kills those who don’t deserve it.” His breath tickles the side of Robert’s neck.
“Captain-”
“I’m tired,” Arthur Davidson whispers, and the weariness in his tone damn near breaks Robert’s heart. “I’m so tired of this. Of everything.”
“Okay,” Robert whispers, unsure. His fingers tremble as he puts one hand to the back of the bent head, brushing the Captain’s dark hair, and he’s terrified, terrified because he’s never been in this position before, of having to act as the source of comfort for another, of, for once, being the strong one. “Okay. Just…just rest, then and-”
“Mr. Fischer?”
The overhead intercom crackles noisily and Robert jumps, curses silently. “Yes?”
“Mr. Browning requests your presence in his office immediately.”
Captain Davidson tenses and lifts his head, and Robert shuts his eyes, not wanting to move, not wanting this moment, whatever it may mean, to pass - but the Captain’s already pulling away, and Robert has no choice but to let go. “Alright. I’m coming.”
- - - - -
“Doctor.”
Jonathan Keiser turns at the voice, watching the owner striding briskly down the corridor, waiting until the other man draws near. “Yes, sir?”
Robert halts, a strange sight in the thin nursing scrubs he wears; Jonathan is only ever used to seeing the young Fischer heir dressed to the nines in Armani or Yves Saint Laurent, swathed in drab grays or solemn charcoal. “I think Captain Davidson is in need of some more medication to help alleviate the pain. Could you increase the dosage?”
“Increase the dosage?” The elderly man repeats, looking puzzled, and Robert frowns.
“Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing,” Dr. Keiser says after a pause. “Right away, Mr. Fischer.”
“ROBERT!” Said man closes his eyes at the rather frantic bellow of his own name and the doctor tips his head once before walking away rather quickly, rounding the corner just before the whirlwind of Peter Browning tears down the hallway and grabs his godson by the shoulders, looking him over and patting him down with gusto. “My God boy, are you alright?”
Robert endures the treatment for a few more seconds before stepping back, shoulders stiff, a bit uncomfortable with the awkward invasion of personal space. “I’m fine, Uncle Peter, but the Captain…I was just putting him up in the medical ward.”
Browning goes red in the face. “You mean he’s not dead?!” His voice is a mix of outrage, disbelief, and disappointment before he can contain it, and Robert’s eyebrows shoot upwards; he stares, incredulous. Getting a hold of himself, the businessman clears his throat. “I mean. He’s not dead. That’s good. Excellent.”
”Why do you think Browning watches your every move?”
Robert narrows his eyes, remembering that the trip to go see the Captain had been an impromptu one, the one deviation from his routine schedule; he hadn’t told Uncle Peter anything about it, in order to preserve the secrecy of the entire matter. Suddenly then, sickeningly, it all makes sense - how the assassins, both of them, were scoping out the Captain’s workspace instead of Robert’s office, how they shot at Captain Davidson, exactly what two for the price of one meant. His voice is cool, words short and biting. “Somehow I find your relief hard to believe.”
The other man hesitates, caught, and then tries to go the placating route. “He wasn’t good for you, Robert,” he says wheedlingly, putting a hand on Robert’s tense shoulder. “He was-”
“He was relocated here to protect me-”
“And he stole company secrets instead!” Browning breaks in triumphantly, clearly viewing the claim as evidence of justification.
Rather than dwell on the increasing sense of uneasiness concerning just how much his godfather does or doesn’t know, Robert remains indignant. “So you tried to have him killed?!” His voice rises, and Browning has the decency to look if not ashamed, then relatively cowed. “What other attempts have you made on his life?” A sudden terrible thought occurs to him and he literally feels the blood draining from his face. “…You didn’t poison his intravenous drip, did you? Oh God, Uncle Peter!”
Without waiting for an answer, he turns on his heel and breaks into a run, heading back toward the hospital wing and the injured Captain Davidson-
The room is empty.
- - - - -
Robert carefully spins the dial on his private vault, turns the handle, and opens the steel door, hefting the small box up in his arms. Glancing inside, his eyes track over a file labeled DAVIDSON, A., a record of classical music (Vivaldi), and tokens of a memory never his - the hotel bill from Cabo, photographs, and letters. Lips pressed tightly together, he sets the box inside the vault, right next to a small paper pinwheel, a child’s toy, and closes the door without a sound.
Slowly, the Fischer heir crosses over to the window and leans his forehead against the opaque glass, swallowing down the lump in his throat. He stands there staring out at nothing for a long, long time.
* - * - *
Part 4
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, unrequited Robert/Arthur, past Cobb/Mal, hinted Robert/Ariadne, Browning, Saito
Rating: R
Word Count: 8,487
Disclaimer: Mr. Nolan owns it all
Warnings: Violence (graphic torture), strong language, sexual content, character death
Summary: In the aftermath of World War III and the Second Civil War of the United States, the members of the dream sharing industry have been turned into fugitives, driven underground and into hiding in order to escape assassination by Fischer Industries USA - except for one, the former leading point man in the business, who has turned traitor against the fugitives Dom Cobb, Public Enemy Number one; and the infamous Eames, leader of the Resistance.
Author's Note: Written for inception_bang . Endless thanks to my wonderful beta, niftywithan who worked tirelessly in looking over drafts, and to my dear celestineangel , without whose wonderful help (read: guidance, advice, cheerleading) this labor of love would not exist. You two are absolutely amazing!! ♥ ♥ ♥
The lower levels of Fischer Industries USA looks exactly like the upper levels: the same black linoleum floors, the same glass walls; even the soft click-click-click of his Oxfords sound the same as Robert wanders aimlessly through the labyrinth of unfamiliar territory, hands stuck in his pockets and shoulders hunched, eyes gloomily glued to the floor.
I’ll have Captain Davidson relocated to the Periphery if necessary.
After Uncle Peter’s frank rebuke disguised as an admonition, Robert hasn’t seen the Captain in days, and, for lack of anything to do besides sit in his office and mope, here he is, plodding around like a lovelorn teenager. Weren’t the pubescent hormones bad enough the first time around? A small part of Robert is disgusted with his own behavior, but the larger part wants just to see the Captain again, even if just a brief glimpse, no matter what circumstances.
His footsteps slow as he passes by the room containing the confidential archives. Even though he acts as CEO in his father’s stead, Robert’s never been to this part of the complex before - but he’s pretty sure the door’s not supposed to be cracked with just a sliver of light peeking out into the otherwise dark and empty hallway. He’s also pretty sure he’s not supposed to be hearing what sounds like the whir of a copier, and he hopes that his eyes are deceiving him as to the identity of the individual standing with his back to the door, copying sensitive files and secure information for various reasons, all of which make Robert’s stomach turn.
"I'd advise you not to take another step, Mr. Fischer."
Robert swallows thickly. Suddenly, the room seems too small, too cloistered, too nightmarish to be real. "What are you doing?"
"A good question." The fax machine whirrs and beeps as the documents are scanned and then sent to an unknown recipient, and although he's been caught, the Captain shows neither any sign of distress nor any indication of stopping. His voice is cool, calm as he works quickly and efficiently, without cease, his back still turned Robert. "But you already know the answer to that, don't you?"
"I should turn you in."
The speed with which the Captain moves is dizzying; Robert blinks and suddenly he sees a flash of death: a Glock 17 with a silencer, so very much like the Captain himself - silent, deadly, and deceptively sleek. The Captain's eyes are even darker in the dim light, and they bore into Robert, unblinking and terrifying. "But will you?"
His words are a knife in the gut. Robert finds that he’s unable to formulate a reply, unable to speak in response to the challenge because suddenly he sees why the Captain is such a dangerous, capable soldier, how all the mystery and intrigue lends itself to more than just myth, how the same man he once witnessed shedding a tear over classical music can kill with nothing but his bare hands. And now, even though it’s pointed down and toward the floor, the Captain has a gun.
The long pause stretches out between them as the documents finish faxing with a final whir, and the Captain sweeps them all into a neat pile with one hand, never once taking his eyes off Robert, his expression unchanging and unreadable. Finally finding his voice, Robert speaks, and it’s a barely audible whisper: “Are you going to kill me?”
“No.” The answer is curt but honest and without any trace of deceit. But Robert doesn’t know what to believe anymore.
“Then why the gun?”
Captain Davidson glances toward the weapon in his hand, as if noticing its presence for the first time. “Pretense.” He unscrews the silencer from the muzzle with quick fingers, and puts both pieces of metal away equally swiftly. “Propriety.” Reaching behind him, he retrieves his gloves and slips them on over his hands, pale skin disappearing beneath black leather. “Protection.”
He steps forward soundlessly and Robert takes an instinctive step back, breath catching in his throat out of terror, viewing this handsome shadow dressed in Fischer Industries USA’s dark green double-breasted uniform jacket and black trousers in an entirely new light. His eyes rove nervously over the hands gloved in black and combination cap pulled down low over his dark eyes, wondering crazily if the Captain would be placing a kiss on his cheek next, whispering Hail Master, hail friend.
And what is he to say in return? Et tu, Brute?
The Captain closes the distance between them and Robert is barely breathing; the other man stands so close that Robert can smell the other man’s aftershave, and the Captain’s voice is low, so low and his breath is a caress against Robert’s ear: “It wasn’t my intention for you to find out this way, Mr. Fischer.” A pause, then, “In fact, I would have rather you not find out at all.”
Robert gasps - “Captain-” but he’s already gone.
- - - - -
“Moshi moshi?”
“My cover’s been blown.” The Captain’s voice is hushed and urgent as he speaks into the phone, uncharacteristically anxious.
The man on the other end of the line offers a chuckle. “Well, Captain, I trust you can deal with-”
“-by Robert Fischer.”
“Kuso.” The curse crackles through the connection, and there’s the sound of something breaking. After a beat, the man speaks again. “Do not draw any attention to yourself, then. I still need you to remain in your role.”
“I can’t stay here! Did you hear me? I’ve been made by Robert Fischer! I need to get out!”
“Not yet, I’m afraid. The senior Fischer is reorganizing his Board of Directors; if you disappear now, it will arouse his suspicion. Just lie low. I will contact you shortly.”
The line goes dead with a sharp click and Arthur stares at the phone in his hand, seething. “Son of a bitch!”
- - - - -
“Son of a bitch.”
Peter shakes his head, immensely pleased with himself. “Bring him here,” he orders, and the spy reporting back on Robert nods, turns on his heel, and exits the office to do as he’s told. Leaning back in his leather chair, Peter throws his head back with a great guffaw, one step away from rubbing his hands together like a gleeful child.
So, the illustrious Captain Davidson is not all he seems. Normally, Peter would be miffed at having so poorly judged the character of an employee, but right now, the glee overrides the vexation at such a prosperous and fortuitous discovery. Stealing from the private archives? You’re mine, Captain, Peter grins, baring his teeth like a predator down at the large 8x11 glossed photo of the man in question before flipping the file folder closed, reaching for a cigarillo, lighting up with gusto and inhaling deeply.
Ah, the sweet, sweet taste of victory.
Disappointingly enough, when Davidson enters into the office not long after, he still looks as impeccable as always, bearing no bruises or any other signs of a struggle. Clearly he came willingly, and Peter shrugs off the slight chagrin because oh, the dear Captain will be boasting some bruises, all right (and them some), by the time he’s done. Rising up from behind his desk, he straightens his suit jacket, pulling himself up to his full height and nodding at his two men standing on either side of the Captain. “Search him.”
The Captain’s face is impassive during the rather humiliating and less than gentle search of his person, dark eyes never leaving their fixed point on the wall somewhere behind Peter’s head as he’s stripped of his weapons: two standard issue firearms, a backup strapped to either ankle, an M9 bayonet knife at his waist, a smaller hunting blade hidden in his boot, and what looks like a garrote wire concealed at his wrist. He doesn’t react as Peter steps in close and blows a mouthful of smoke straight in his face, doesn’t even so much as blink.
“If I may remind you, Captain, stealing company secrets is not one of your duties,” he sneers, and leans in close, getting right in the other man’s face, “so allow me to correct your wrongdoings.”
There are no cameras in Peter Browning’s office, no eyes to capture or witness anything that might go on behind the walls - the only ones in the main building of the entire Fischer Industries USA complex that aren’t glass. And Peter takes full advantage of it.
His fist meets the Captain’s gut in a swift, underhand punch at the same time that from behind, one of his men kicks the back of the Captain’s knee, and Davidson goes down, breath caught in a slight grunt, one arm curled around his midsection. Peter brings up his knee sharply and nods in satisfaction at the sight of red (damn, that’ll have to be dry-cleaned), leans down and lets his jovial façade drop. “Steal from me, Captain,” he hisses, “and I won’t even give you the pleasure of dying.” He flicks the cigarillo and watches the ashes drift down onto the Captain’s bent head with disdain. “Oh no, you little rat, I’m going to take my sweet time-”
Captain Davidson stretches, straightens, and then strikes.
One hand shoots out and grabs either guard behind the knee, jerking forward sharply; one falls forward, arms windmilling wildly, and bashes his head on the corner of Peter’s fine teak desk. The other falters but recovers his balance, reaching for his sidearm -too late though, as a fist smashes into his face, pushing his nose back into his brain, and he too plummets like a stone. Peter’s backed up against his desk, cigarillo falling to the floor and crushed underfoot as he scrabbles for one of the Captain’s many weapons laid out on the desk - freezing when the cold, cold metal of a muzzle presses against the underside of his jaw.
“But can you prove it?” Captain Davidson asks smoothly, not even out of breath although blood flows in a steady stream from his nose, down his chin, staining his uniform. “Can you prove it like I can prove Dominic Cobb was framed for starting the Second Civil War?” The revolver mousegun (where the hell had he been hiding that?) in his hand digs into the fleshy skin at Peter’s neck; and the businessman is terrified to move his head or even speak.
The Captain’s eyes are furious, burning despite his otherwise composed appearance, and his voice drips hatred and contempt. “I know who the real culprits are, you son of a bitch-” Here, he jams the gun even deeper, and Peter may or may not have squeaked. “-and unlike you, who have nothing on me, I have proof to back my claim.” With blood staining his parted lips and that timbre of voice, the Captain is the stuff of nightmares, a demon cloaked in the flesh of a man, or a seriously pissed off soldier forced to turn traitor on his own people to work for the enemy. “Project Extraction,” he growls, “Motion 528-491.”
Peter Browning’s stomach bottoms out.
“Tell me why people go missing, Browning, missing by the handful every three months from Fisher Industries USA encampments? Grounds that are supposed. To. Be. Secure?” Each word is enunciated by a rather painful prod of the muzzle of the revolver against the jugular. “Tell me exactly how tourists become the way they are. Explain how more and more of them come crawling out of the Periphery every three months, wrecked out of their minds, why don’t you?”
“I - I don’t know what-”
“Please. Don’t. Insult. Me.” For a moment then, the Captain looks like he’s seriously considering pulling the trigger right then and there, staring down at the other man with dark eyes, an avenging angel passing judgment and finding Peter Browning guilty and unworthy of mercy. “You and Maurice Fischer’s dirty little secret, and now I’m not the only one who knows.” Fishing into his pocket, the Captain retrieves a small flash drive, displays it with aplomb. Peter pales, and Davidson presses the muzzle of the gun against his forehead, forcing him back around the desk and into his desk chair. “Sit.” Fingers finding the grip of his previously divested Glock 17, the Captain raises the sidearm and points it. “How very convenient of you not to have functioning cameras in your office, Mr. Browning.”
“You wouldn’t,” Peter sputters, and the Captain smiles dangerously, all teeth and sharp, biting cynicism.
“I’ve killed more men than you’ve met in your entire lifetime,” he says casually, eyes narrowing. “Don’t presume to know what I will or will not do.” The gun is steady in his grip, an instrument of death in the hands of Azrael himself.
“You’re done for, Davidson,” Peter says desperately, grasping at straws in an attempt to sound threatening. “As soon as you turn your back, I’ll have you reduced to a bloody smear on the floor for the janitors to deal with!”
Captain Davidson smirks. Blood stains his teeth. “Well then, I’ll just have to keep that from happening, won’t I?”
* - * - *
Scotty Henderson adjusts the visor of the cap down over his eyes; a small drizzle wets his shoulders, having started only a couple of minutes ago and with the crap headlights on the old Jeep he’s driving, he knows to take it slowly so he won’t careen off the edge of a ravine or into a ditch. He’d just finished taking driver’s ed the summer World War III broke out, and he still drives with his hands at the customary ten and two position - so he slows the half-decrepit vehicle down to a mere twenty-five miles per hour, grimacing slightly at the sputtering of the engine.
Well. At least he has a vehicle. He’s already been on the road for about two days, and has yet to arrive at camp (although he knows he’s getting close) and can’t imagine having to navigate back to Sherwood Base from Fischer Industries USA headquarters on foot, battling the elements, and with nothing but the clothes on his back and his discharge papers.
He shakes his head, still bewildered by the course of events that’d happened to him during the past few days. Eames had sent him to spy and report back on Fischer Industries USA’s new Head of Security due to the fact that he’s young, mildly handsome and overall competent, observant, and good at doing things quickly and quietly and without having to be asked twice - the typical grunt worker, forever destined to be ignored and left in the shadows. He’d fit in perfectly as a lowly security guard within the complex, where he was able to ask about the infamous Captain Davidson, striking up conversation with others who were all too willing to gossip about their mysterious superior, gleaning what he could through the grapevine and sending back encoded bits and pieces of what he picked up.
In the sparse three weeks since his employment (all the necessary paperwork had been a bitch to submit, but Eames isn’t blacklisted as the best forger in the world for nothing), Scotty only ever got within fifty feet of the man and it had been a couple of mornings ago, when the Captain approached him first - and nearly gave him a heart attack.
“Scottsdale Anders Henderson?”
Fuck. Fuckity fucking fuck. He knows. How does he know?! Shit, shit, shit. “Yes sir, that’s me.”
The Captain’s face is impassive as he stands at least half a head above the other, eyes narrowed sharply, and Scotty can feel himself shrinking pathetically under the penetrating stare, nervously eyeing the two standard sidearms strapped to either side of the Captain’s belt - great, he’s ambidextrous - and trying very, very hard not to fall to his knees right then and there, begging for mercy or for a swift and (relatively) painless death.
“I’m relieving you of duty, Henderson.”
His knees are literally knocking together. “Sir?” he squeaks, and flinches as the Captain pulls out a sheaf of papers, desperately fighting the hormones being pumped out into his system that are making his muscles tense and brain shriek, Run you idiot, run if you want to live!
Scotty doesn’t run though, even though he’d been the star sprinter on his high school’s track team even as a freshman, because he knows that Captain Davidson would put a bullet in his skull even before he could get the chance to move two feet toward any exit. The stories are no exaggeration, the myths only all too real, and Scotty would rather not be another statistic in the Captain’s rather impressive track record of kills, thanks very much.
“I reviewed your file and found a deficiency in your eyesight test.” The Captain hands him the documents, cream-colored pieces of paper passing from black gloves to shaking hands. “I’m sorry, but we have to let you go. I’ve arranged to give you a vehicle to aid you on your journey back home. Fishcer Industries thanks you for your service.” With that, he turns smartly on his heel and starts to walk away on silent feet.
Scotty gapes after him, swallows twice, and finally gets his vocal cords to work. “T-that’s it?”
The other man pauses, turns, and raises an eyebrow; Scotty literally takes a step backwards. Then, miraculously - or maybe it’s just a trick of the light - the Captain’s eyes soften ever so slightly, and he inclines his head toward the door on the other side of the dining hall. “Go.”
Scotty doesn’t have to be told twice.
I shouldn’t even be alive, he muses as he flicks another glance at the discharge papers that do indeed cite apparent color blindness as the reason for his swift discharge. In reality, Scotty can tell red and blue and green apart just fine, and he purses his lips thoughtfully. Maybe Eames is right about Arthur Davidson, former Captain of the Marine Corps and current Head of Security of Fischer Industries; he certainly doesn’t seem like the mighty tyrant or merciless killer that Gordon always makes him out to be. Through his observations, Scotty never saw anything in the Captain’s demeanor that suggested-
PFT-ssssss.
“Oh, fucking- seriously?” Yes, seriously, apparently, and Scotty throws his hands up in disgust. “Goddamn it.” He stops the Jeep with a scowl and climbs out of the driver’s seat, grumbling as he reaches into his back pocket for the small penlight, crouching down in the mud to inspect the flat tire. He should’ve expected something like this to happen driving through the woods and on the back roads of nowhere, and with a heavy sigh, he stands up, praying that the old Jeep still has a spare and, if he’s lucky, maybe a jack.
Turns out, his luck has just about run out - another soft pft sounds out into the night, this one much quieter than its predecessor, and Scotty falls face first into the mud. He lies there unmoving, a small, perfect circle in the base of his skull.
A dark figure flips and drops gracefully out of a tree fifty feet away from the idling Jeep and fallen body, calmly dissembling an M40 rifle - the standard issue sniping weapon of the United States Marine Corps - and begins to whistle quietly, a rather old and haunting melody, and the notes of Edif Piaf’s Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien shiver in the chill air.
- - - - -
“-scheming son of a WHORE!”
Ariadne frowns up at the canvas roof of the tent and sits up at the rather rude impromptu wakeup call, swinging her legs over the side of the cot to slip her bare feet into her boots, grabbing a thin jacket and slipping it around her shoulders before venturing outside, blinking blearily. It’s an overcast day, with barely any sunlight peeking through the clouds (it had rained last night; Ariadne fell asleep listening to the soft pitter-patter of droplets overhead), and as soon as she rubs the sleep out of her eyes, she sees the source of all the noise.
Eames is pacing back and forth - more like stomping, really - like a caged tiger, red in the face and yelling out obscenities right and left. He looks like he just rolled out of bed too, hair sticking up in odd directions, waving his hands around. It would be comical if it weren’t for the unmistakable anger contorting his features as he rages and shouts at Cobb, who stands there, shoulders stiff and features looking as if they’ve been carved out of stone. Between them, on the slightly soggy ground, lies a black tarp, bulging slightly upwards in various places.
“Scotty was just a kid; he was a bloody kid!!” Eames roars, a vein pulsing in his forehead, cords standing out in his neck. “That bloody bastard, he-”
“This isn’t Arthur’s doing,” Cobb breaks in, features hard but troubled. “It’s sloppy, Eames. And there’s no way he could or would have-”
“It’s his name and signature on the official release forms,” Eames snaps, waving around a sheaf of papers that might’ve once been neat but are now crumpled in one fist. “He’s fucking toying with us! Some fucking release, that sick fucker!!”
“Eames-”
“Disemboweled, Cobb! And we still haven’t found his head! How the bloody hell am I supposed to send Scotty’s body back to his mum without his fucking head?!”
Ariadne doesn’t bother sticking around to hear any more. Clapping a hand to her mouth, she stumbles backwards and retreats back into her tent. Without even bothering to remove her boots, she climbs back between the sheets, pulls the coverlet over her head, squeezes her eyes shut, and shivers.
* - * - *
Goddamn it, Robert. Man up.
The gun lies innocuously in its cushioned box, merely metal cylinders and sleek barrels, pin locks and magazine, trigger and bits of lead - just an object because it’s not guns that kill people, but other people, and Robert reaches out, closes his fingers around the grip, and breathes out a shaky sigh. Alright. You can do this.
The walk to his intended destination is a long one, made only all the more tedious by the clumsy weapon he holds awkwardly facing away from his person at all times, like one might do with an infant that’s just spit up or a particularly disgusting bag of garbage. That and the fact that Robert really would rather not go confront Captain Davidson, given that he’s fairly sure the other man could kill him and hide all the evidence rather effortlessly. It’s a small detail that Robert decides not to dwell upon, if only for the sake of keeping his composure, and, as he nears the Captain’s small closet office - a far cry from his own spacious workspace - he takes a deep breath, steels his nerves, and tries to ignore the tiny fluttering of fear in his stomach, fear tinged with the open wound of betrayal that has haunted him for two days now.
“Captain?”
His voice doesn’t shake, and Robert silently congratulates himself as he slips past the cracked door - he’s always been exceedingly slender in build - and steps slowly into the room. “Captain Davidson?”
This sad excuse for a workspace really is a broom closet, stripped bare of any and all décor, barely seven by ten feet in size. A bunk stands pushed against the far wall, too small for any grown man, and everywhere Robert glances, he’s surrounded by drab grey walls reminiscent of the inside of a prison cell. A desk occupies the most space, cold metal instead of the fine mahogany Robert owns; the chair sits pushed slightly away from the table as if its occupant had left in a hurry and hadn’t bothered with putting it back into place - or with concealing or even straightening the materials strewn across the desktop, either.
Gun held loosely in one hand, Robert edges closer to the desk, his curiosity getting the better of him - after all, that’s why he’s here: to discover exactly what the other man had been doing when Robert stumbled upon him a couple of days prior, and to deal with it in the fastest and best way possible. It’s his responsibility to do so, as head of Fischer Industries USA - and it’s his only chance to ensure that the Captain isn’t executed for his apparent treason, because that’s what Maurice Fischer would insist upon. Robert hasn’t forgotten Uncle Peter’s threat to exile the Captain out to the Periphery either, and he can only hope he’s the first to have picked up on the Captain’s actions.
While the aforementioned punishments may suit the crime, Robert can’t think of a single thing that could possibly justify ending the Captain’s life - because Arthur Davidson is a good man, and deserves so much better than that.
Despite his apparent underhanded dealings, the Captain is the most upstanding individual Robert has ever met. He doesn’t fool around with flattery or anything else so artificial or insincere for the sake of appearances, saying exactly what he means every time he opens his mouth or choosing to stay silent otherwise. He comes across as extremely skilled and tenacious in ethic, meticulous in his actions, a soldier through and through, standing as a solid pillar of immovable strength and straightforward principle - none of which is an act and reflects his character truthfully and without the slightest hint of exaggeration.
One doesn’t come across such people very often nowadays, not when brother abandons brother, a husband his wife, and a mother her children. And the thought of executing the man who has stood for close to two solid months as a protector and silent supporter by his side, the very notion of seeing him standing in front of a firing squad, getting punched full of lead and crumbling to the ground like a broken marionette makes bile rise up in the back of Robert’s throat and turns his stomach.
Captain Davidson hadn’t killed Robert when he clearly had so many chances to do so, and if nothing else, Robert is determined to return the favor.
There’s nothing on the desktop suitable for indictment or exoneration though, and Robert cocks his head as he takes in the spread of missives, photographs, and tokens of a life destroyed long ago, memories and clues as to the identity of the man who knows (at least) one of Vivaldi’s Concertos by name, ear, and heart, the man who dons uniform handsomely but wears a three piece suit like a second skin, composed of all lean lines and sharp angles and thin white pinstripes, the man who calls himself Captain and presents himself to the world with a stern, impassive face and uncanny ability to kill.
His fingers brush against the edges of what look like an odd combination of letters, some written on worn pieces of yellowed paper, ink faded slightly with age and beginning to tear at the creases from being read so many times (My dearest Arthur-, Darling-, Dear Uncle Arthur-); others are printed on crisp white sheets, blocky font marching in straight lines across the top (To Whom it May Concern-, Captain Arthur Lawrence Davidson-, Dear Sir, We regret to inform you-). Flicking his gaze to the side, his eyes drift across a photograph of two beautiful children with cornsilk hair and wide, innocent eyes; they pass over an image of the Captain with his arm around a radiant pregnant woman with a beautiful smile (a woman Robert knows from autopsy reports as Dominic Cobb’s late wife - executed by firing squad for conspiracy against Fischer Industries and treason against the United States of America). There’s a ticket stub from what looks like a deployment to a military base in Nevada, a hotel bill from The -- in Cabo, California, July 25, 2010, and finally, smack dab right in the middle of the desk, lies a photograph that makes Robert stop and take notice.
Dressed in a sharp tuxedo and with his hair slicked back professionally per usual, there’s no mistaking the Captain- but in the soft smile pulling at his lips, in the stunning and most uncharacteristic vulnerability in his eyes as he gazes fondly and almost tenderly at the other man in the photo (a scruffy, ruggedly handsome man who’s smiling right back, one hand slung casually around the Captain’s slim shoulders), Robert sees not a soldier or traitor, but Arthur Lawrence Davidson himself.
A sound behind Robert draws his attention and he half-turns, startled - and then he’s bent over the desk before he can comprehend what’s going on, face pressed down against the cold metal by a strong hand on the back of his neck and with his arm twisted behind him at an awkward angle. For a brief moment, Robert panics and thinks about struggling before the gun is plucked from his grasp by deft, unmistakable fingers and he recognizes his captor.
“A gun doesn’t become you, Mr. Fischer,” the Captain comments smoothly, stepping back and letting up him.
Robert rubs his wrist (that’s probably going to bruise) and neck gingerly, watching the Captain remove the gun’s magazine, pocket the bullets, and disassemble the weapon all in under five seconds. “I thought it best.”
“For what?”
His reply is quiet and uncertain, an echo of the other man’s words from only a couple of days ago. “For protection.” He keeps his eyes glued to the materials on the desk, fighting to keep his nerves in check and his tone conversational. “Still working, Captain?” He chances a glance upwards when a gloved hand descends to cover the spread. “You don’t sleep, do you?”
Dark eyes cut in his direction, suddenly world-weary, but still as sharp as ever. “Chronic insomnia,” the Captain snaps, curtly. “It happens after two wars, back to back.” Robert involuntarily steps back at the obvious bite, hands automatically rising up in the universal gesture of calm and surrender, and the action elicits a shake of the head. “Put your hands down. I’m not here to kill you.”
“Then why are you still here?”
Captain Davidson sighs, scrubs wearily at his face with the palm of his hand - the most human gesture Robert has ever seen him perform, looks up - and lunges like a panther, tackling Robert to the floor with impossible grace just as the wall behind their heads explodes with the impact of bullets. “DOWN!!”
The Captain moves like a whip - fluidly and with practiced ease, picking himself up from shielding Robert’s frame and slipping seamlessly into the next step, footwork never once faltering. One foot kicks the desk towards the door, closing it halfway; one hand grabs the bunk by its posts and knocks it over; the other grabs Robert by the collar and drags him behind the poor cover. “Stay down,” he orders in a hiss of breath, releasing his charge as he drops into a half-crouch and draws a gun from his shoulder holster. “Stay down and don’t move.”
Robert can only nod at the directive, having gotten the wind knocked out of him by the hard fall and rather painful landing, breath coming in uneven, ragged gasps fueled by a heady rush of adrenaline and fear. A single lock of dark hair falls over Captain Davidson’s forehead and he shakes the unruly strands out of the way with a small flick of his head, eyes trained on the cracked door as he rises from his haunches. Robert’s eyes are fixed on the Captain and the straight line of his clean-shaven jaw, the steady set of his shoulders, the rise and fall of his chest as he waits, silent and motionless, a living statue carved out of a strange mix of marble and flesh and blood.
Then, in a flash of movement, the Captain rises up, fires only one shot (Robert flinches at the sound) - and then ducks back behind the overturned bunk. From somewhere out in the hallway there comes an ominous thud, and Robert doesn’t have to be a soldier with a trained ear and a sixth sense honed to perfection to know the sound of a body falling. He’s witnessed Death moving about before.
Threat now apparently exterminated, Robert makes as if to get up, the muscles in one leg cramped and entire body still as tense as a tightly coiled spring - but Captain Davidson holds out a halting hand, motioning without words, wait. Lean frame taut in anticipation, the Captain’s fingers flex against the grip of the gun as he straightens ever so slightly, emerging from behind the cover. The hand drops down to Robert’s shoulder, squeezing absent-mindedly, and Robert tenses as the touch burns through the fabric of his clothes, through his skin, down to the bone.
BANG.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Captain Davidson makes no sound as he falls, thrown back by the momentum of the impacting bullet, red blossoming from the angry gash on the left side of his torso; his fingers whisper in the tiniest of rustle of skin against cloth as they go slack, drag across Robert’s shoulder, and then slip limply down the length of his upper arm.
“Oh God. Oh, fuck…Captain-” Robert blurts out incoherently, terror overriding every other instinct as he gapes at the Captain’s fallen form. Scrambling, he crawls over to the body, knees hitting the rapidly spreading puddle of crimson and reaches out shaking hands to frantically feel for a pulse, clumsy fingers slipping in his panic. “Please, please, oh God-”
The cold muzzle of a gun presses against the back of his head and Robert freezes, his fingers still splayed against Captain Davidson’s jaw. “Stand up.”
He does as he’s told, standing stiffly, heart in his throat. What else can he do, when his bodyguard lies motionless at his feet? A hand grabs his shoulder - the fingers thick and the grip rough, so very different from the Captain’s reassuring squeeze from just moments prior - and shoves him toward the door. “Get over there.”
He stumbles forward, hands raised up on either side of his head, and at the all too familiar click of the hammer of a gun being pulled back, Robert’s shoulders tense in anticipation of the executioner’s bullet - which doesn’t come. After a moment, he chances a glance over his shoulder and sees the assassin on one knee beside Captain Davidson’s body, an oddly contemplative look on his face, and Robert’s chest clenches tight as the gun descends and traces the slack features - over his closed eyelids, muzzle traveling the outline of his lips, skating back and forth along his cheekbone and down along his jaw - a parody of a lover’s caress.
“Arthur Davidson,” the assassin drawls, a hint of the south evident in his accent, rolling the name over and over his tongue as if tasting each syllable. “Got myself a looker this time,” he laughs, and grabs the Captain’s jaw, turning his lolling head this way and that, like one might display a particularly fine horse. “Wonder how much this pretty little head is worth?”
Still horrified by Captain Davidson’s untimely death, Robert doesn’t fully grasp the meaning of the other man’s words until he pulls out the carving knife strapped to his belt and starts to look the Captain over like a Virginia ham. Oh, then, Robert’s blood starts to absolutely boil. “Get your hands off of him.”
The assassin flashes him a cocky grin, and places the knife against Captain Davidson’s neck, letting the sharp blade just barely kiss pale skin. “If you wanted a piece of him for yourself, you should’ve taken him when you had the chance, lover boy.” He stands slowly, tilting his head to the side and running his eyes up and down Robert’s form. “Well, look at that. Two for the price of one.”
“Go to hell,” Robert spits in response, and the assassin laughs.
“Look around you, boy. We’re already in Hell.” He advances forward a step, boot leaving behind a red print on the floor, and Robert’s anger begins simmering into a sickly fear. “Davidson might be dead - but you, little Fischer - you ain’t so bad lookin’ yourself.” Another grin reveals yellow teeth. “Good enough to eat or - FUCK!!”
Robert, by now having flattened himself against the wall, gapes as the assassin pitches forward, an M9 bayonet knife sticking out of the back of his knee. As soon as the man’s knees hit the floor, a pair of black gloved hands reach up out of nowhere, grabbing forehead and chin -
Crack.
“Captain.” Robert’s head spins with an odd combination of nausea, confusion, and elation; he doesn’t even know he’s moving until he’s right by the Captain’s side, one hand reaching out to grab the other man’s arm to validate, to reassure, to touch and breathe a sigh of relief. His hand comes away warm and slippery though, and he swears. “Shit, Captain-”
“It’s fine. Just a graze-” Robert pulls the silk pocket square out of his suit jacket and presses it against the sluggishly leaking wound, eliciting a hiss. As the Captain sways slightly on his feet, Robert boldly throws the other man’s arm around his shoulders.
“I’m taking you to the hospital wing,” he decides aloud. The Captain slumps slightly with a soft sigh and Robert’s concern heightens; his step quickens.
He tries not to look at the two fallen bodies as they pass by.
- - - - -
His suit is completely ruined, covered in blood, none of which is his.
Robert stands in a pair of nursing scrubs (his oxford shirt is also encrusted with dried blood, now turning a dull brown from its previously white color, completely unsalvageable), quietly watching the physicians on the other side of the glass observation window suturing the deep gash in the Captain’s ribs. He’d been right, the Captain; the wound is nothing but a graze, but it’s a pretty damn deep laceration to have produced that much blood, and it takes twenty-three stitches to close, black thread against pale skin.
Robert counts each and every one.
The door opens and Dr. Keiser steps into the observation room, stripping off his green neoprene gloves. “It would be best to take it easy, Mr. Fischer. The Captain needs to rest.”
“I understand, doctor. Thank you.”
He moves quietly into the room, steps muffled but not entirely silent, dodging the nurses cleaning up piles of bloody gauze and tidying up the space, waiting until the small hubbub of energy leaves the room with the last nurse wheeling the small tray of operating instruments out the door before moving towards the bed, steps muffled but not entirely silent. The Captain lies against the white sheets, eyes closed, an IV in his wrist and bandages wrapped around his ribs - so still, so unguarded, so strange. “Captain?”
Dark eyelashes flutter, and then open as Captain Davidson blinks blearily, roving around for a moment before settling on Robert. “Mr. Fischer.” A beat passes, then, bluntly: “You look terrible.”
His words are halting, his speech slightly slurred, and Robert glances at the IV drip, where some type of painkiller must be to blame. “Thank you for protecting me,” he says quietly, for lack of other words, and because it has to be said.
The Captain tips his head back again, baring a long white expanse of his throat. “It’s my job,” he mumbles noncommittally, “to protect everyone. To make sure the job goes right.”
The honesty of the statement strikes Robert to the core, and he realizes this could be his only chance to discover the truth, if ever. His mind races, and, stupidly, the only thing he comes up with is: “It was, wasn’t it? When you were a point man?”
“When I was a point man,” the Captain repeats and ducks his head. A wry smile twists his lips, something bitter and haunted, and Robert’s fingers twitch, itching to stretch out and smooth it away.
“Is that what you’re doing now?” he asks gently instead, moving closer until he can smell blood mingled with sweat and antiseptic. “Collecting intel for someone else?” The Captain frowns, blinks owlishly, and Robert quickly bites the inside of his cheek to hide a smile, because although this is neither the time nor place, the word adorable rises to the forefront of his mind.
“You can’t be doing this for personal gain,” he continues, confident of the truth in his words. “Otherwise, you would’ve already killed me or let me die. So why are you doing this? Selling company secrets and planning to sabotage Fischer Industries USA?”
The only response is none at all, and Robert moves before he can hesitate, sitting down carefully on the edge of the bed. The Captain watches him without any wariness or suspicion, simply a naked interest that seems more suited to that of a child. “Are - are you in trouble, Captain?” His treacherous hand reaches out upon its own accord, but he stops himself before he does anything foolish and quickly retracts it. “Is that why? Can I help you?”
Captain Davidson cocks his head slightly, and Robert finds himself trapped under the dark gaze, foggy with medication but surprisingly lucid. “Why are you doing this, Mr. Fischer?” His fingers, long and elegant, toy distractedly with the edge of the bedspread. “Helping people to whom you owe no claim?”
Robert frowns, sidelined by the straightforward inquiry. The Captain must be really out of it. “Have you seen what’s going on here? They need all the help they can get!”
“Yes, I have,” is the prompt reply, in a voice that Robert knows he won’t forget for a long, long time - tired and weary, but with an undercurrent of quiet strength that indicates the speaker is the furthest thing from resigned. “I’ve been out there. I’ve seen the depravity and the wretchedness, the filth and the need - and you haven’t.”
The words aren’t accusatory or unkind, but simply the truth - and that hurts most of all. “You haven’t seen anything beyond the four walls of this building for years,” the Captain says, slowly raising himself up and away from the pillows at his back, and Robert would tell him to be careful, but his throat is too dry. “You go on blind faith, hoping and praying that whenever you sign your name on a slip of paper, that a convoy of supplies will get sent, that you’re helping people, that you’re doing the right thing.” He draws in a ragged breath. “But you don’t know.”
The next thing Robert knows, Captain Davidson’s leaned in so close he can see his reflection in those dark eyes, and his breath stutters in his throat. “Why do you think Browning watches your every move?” Another deep breath, this one accompanied by a grimace. “Why do you think you’re never allowed outside; why your windows are tinted so dark that you can’t see anything?”
“Captain, maybe you should-”
The Captain shakes his head. “Why do you think,” he says in a low voice, “your father doesn’t want you back?”
Robert flinches, and then stands up off the bed. It’s the anesthesia; it must be, his mind blares, and he tries to force the uncomfortable question to the back of his mind, asking one of his own, this time more forcefully. “Who are you working for?”
The other man leans back, sweat beaded on his brow, clearly spent. “I can’t tell you that.” His tone has dulled, quieted, giving no indication of the intensity of his previous cross-examination, and Robert takes the chance to gain the upper hand.
“Is it Cobb? Are you still loyal to him?”
“Of course I’m loyal to Cobb. I always will be.”
Robert stares. “But…your polygraph test-”
A half-chuckle, half-groan breaks from Captain Davidson’s lips. “You don’t think I know how to lie well enough to beat a machine?”
It’s the utter sincerity and frankness of the claim that makes the connection, and Robert opens his mouth, closes it, and tries again. “You…you were…partners?” he asks quietly, eyes straying downwards.
“Yes.”
Of course. Of course. Robert feels like hitting himself, repeatedly. Of course - what else could inspire such loyalty? He’d been a fool. He’d been such an idiot.
“Oh,” the Captain says suddenly, eyebrows quirking upwards, eyes fixed on Robert’s face - where he’s sure there must be any number of emotions ranging from shame to guilt to anger directed at himself. “Wait. No.” A small smile tugs at his lips, quiet amusement at some private joke, eyes filled suddenly with nostalgia and warmth, crinkling at the corners. “Not that way,” he huffs good-naturedly, sitting up and leaning forward towards Robert.
Apparently, though, the painkiller is pretty damn strong - strong enough to confuse a man of Captain Davidson’s mental and physical strength because the Captain misjudges the distance between his feet, the floor, the length of his own legs, and the space between the bed and Robert - and pitches forward without the slightest bit of grace or poise.
Robert catches him quite easily, arms encircling the slender but muscled torso, mindful of the bandages. His hold is careful and somewhat hesitant as he supports the Captain’s shoulders, ready to lower him back down against the pillows. To his surprise, the Captain quietly breathes out a sigh, muscles relaxing and turning his head slightly to lay his cheek on Robert’s shoulder, going slack in the embrace.
For just a moment, Robert forgets how to breathe.
“You’re a good man, Mr. Fischer,” the Captain says, the words a barely audible murmur. “And I’m not the type of man who kills those who don’t deserve it.” His breath tickles the side of Robert’s neck.
“Captain-”
“I’m tired,” Arthur Davidson whispers, and the weariness in his tone damn near breaks Robert’s heart. “I’m so tired of this. Of everything.”
“Okay,” Robert whispers, unsure. His fingers tremble as he puts one hand to the back of the bent head, brushing the Captain’s dark hair, and he’s terrified, terrified because he’s never been in this position before, of having to act as the source of comfort for another, of, for once, being the strong one. “Okay. Just…just rest, then and-”
“Mr. Fischer?”
The overhead intercom crackles noisily and Robert jumps, curses silently. “Yes?”
“Mr. Browning requests your presence in his office immediately.”
Captain Davidson tenses and lifts his head, and Robert shuts his eyes, not wanting to move, not wanting this moment, whatever it may mean, to pass - but the Captain’s already pulling away, and Robert has no choice but to let go. “Alright. I’m coming.”
- - - - -
“Doctor.”
Jonathan Keiser turns at the voice, watching the owner striding briskly down the corridor, waiting until the other man draws near. “Yes, sir?”
Robert halts, a strange sight in the thin nursing scrubs he wears; Jonathan is only ever used to seeing the young Fischer heir dressed to the nines in Armani or Yves Saint Laurent, swathed in drab grays or solemn charcoal. “I think Captain Davidson is in need of some more medication to help alleviate the pain. Could you increase the dosage?”
“Increase the dosage?” The elderly man repeats, looking puzzled, and Robert frowns.
“Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing,” Dr. Keiser says after a pause. “Right away, Mr. Fischer.”
“ROBERT!” Said man closes his eyes at the rather frantic bellow of his own name and the doctor tips his head once before walking away rather quickly, rounding the corner just before the whirlwind of Peter Browning tears down the hallway and grabs his godson by the shoulders, looking him over and patting him down with gusto. “My God boy, are you alright?”
Robert endures the treatment for a few more seconds before stepping back, shoulders stiff, a bit uncomfortable with the awkward invasion of personal space. “I’m fine, Uncle Peter, but the Captain…I was just putting him up in the medical ward.”
Browning goes red in the face. “You mean he’s not dead?!” His voice is a mix of outrage, disbelief, and disappointment before he can contain it, and Robert’s eyebrows shoot upwards; he stares, incredulous. Getting a hold of himself, the businessman clears his throat. “I mean. He’s not dead. That’s good. Excellent.”
”Why do you think Browning watches your every move?”
Robert narrows his eyes, remembering that the trip to go see the Captain had been an impromptu one, the one deviation from his routine schedule; he hadn’t told Uncle Peter anything about it, in order to preserve the secrecy of the entire matter. Suddenly then, sickeningly, it all makes sense - how the assassins, both of them, were scoping out the Captain’s workspace instead of Robert’s office, how they shot at Captain Davidson, exactly what two for the price of one meant. His voice is cool, words short and biting. “Somehow I find your relief hard to believe.”
The other man hesitates, caught, and then tries to go the placating route. “He wasn’t good for you, Robert,” he says wheedlingly, putting a hand on Robert’s tense shoulder. “He was-”
“He was relocated here to protect me-”
“And he stole company secrets instead!” Browning breaks in triumphantly, clearly viewing the claim as evidence of justification.
Rather than dwell on the increasing sense of uneasiness concerning just how much his godfather does or doesn’t know, Robert remains indignant. “So you tried to have him killed?!” His voice rises, and Browning has the decency to look if not ashamed, then relatively cowed. “What other attempts have you made on his life?” A sudden terrible thought occurs to him and he literally feels the blood draining from his face. “…You didn’t poison his intravenous drip, did you? Oh God, Uncle Peter!”
Without waiting for an answer, he turns on his heel and breaks into a run, heading back toward the hospital wing and the injured Captain Davidson-
The room is empty.
- - - - -
Robert carefully spins the dial on his private vault, turns the handle, and opens the steel door, hefting the small box up in his arms. Glancing inside, his eyes track over a file labeled DAVIDSON, A., a record of classical music (Vivaldi), and tokens of a memory never his - the hotel bill from Cabo, photographs, and letters. Lips pressed tightly together, he sets the box inside the vault, right next to a small paper pinwheel, a child’s toy, and closes the door without a sound.
Slowly, the Fischer heir crosses over to the window and leans his forehead against the opaque glass, swallowing down the lump in his throat. He stands there staring out at nothing for a long, long time.
* - * - *
Part 4