Fic: A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall, 7a/10 [Inception]
Title: A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall, (7a/10)
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, unrequited Robert/Arthur, past Cobb/Mal, hinted Robert/Ariadne, Browning, Saito
Rating: R
Word Count: 6,417
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!! ♥ ♥ ♥
Natasha leaves quickly without making any excuses, in much the same way as she’d seen to the rather extensive list of all of Arthur’s injuries: methodically, carefully, and without a word, professional through and through. In the five hours that she works on stabilizing the injured man she’d been presented with, Arthur became just another patient, nameless and faceless - or at least that’s what Natasha’s manner suggested - and Cobb felt himself breathing just a little bit easier, reassured that the physician wasn’t about to grab a scalpel and stab Arthur to death as he lay there on the operating table, pumped full of all the sedative that can be spared and utterly defenseless.
A lump forms in his throat and Cobb looks away from the pile of bloody gauze and jars of burn ointment. He has a desperate urge for a smoke right about now, but he knows he won’t and can’t, not after seeing the hideous circular burn marks covering the palms and backs of Arthur’s hands, wounds made from the glowing end of a lit cigarette. It’s strange and wholly disconcerting seeing his former point man lying on the single cot - Eames had insisted on being the one to move him, a point that Cobb didn’t see any reason to oppose or protest - like a broken doll some nasty kid had torn apart and that they were now trying to put back together with duct tape and bandages and stupid, stupid hope.
He hasn’t let himself believe in anything as fragile and empty as hope in a long time, Cobb thinks as he absent-mindedly rubs at the golden band on his fourth finger. Belatedly, he wishes that he hadn’t been so hasty in killing Gordon because right about now, he can really do with smashing his fist into the sadistic fucker’s face.
There comes a knock at the door and Cobb has his Colt .45 in hand and pointed in that same direction without even thinking, then quickly hides it from sight when Ariadne’s head pokes into the room, eyes wide and inquisitive and focused entirely on Arthur’s still form. His brow creases and he doesn’t put the gun away, not yet.
Eames glances up from his position right by Arthur’s side. “Ariadne?” he asks, clearly just as puzzled as Cobb as to why the young woman would be here.
Is he going to be okay? Ariadne signs, moving cautiously into the room, biting her lower lip.
Eames shoots Cobb a wordless glance and Cobb shrugs his shoulders, a minute gesture. Arthur’s current condition is unstable at best, requiring twenty-four hour supervision lest his heart stops without anyone noticing, given that Sherwood isn’t so fortunate as to have a working heart monitor or the electricity necessary to sustain such equipment. “Nothing’s certain yet, dove.”
Ariadne steps to the foot of the cot and stares at Arthur with a strange expression on her face, gratitude and concern and the slightest bit of hesitation all rolled into one. What’s his name?
Cobb speaks up then, trying to keep all hints of accusation and suspicion out of his tone, and not knowing whether or not he succeeds. “Why the need to know?”
Because… Ariadne hesitates, her gaze still trained on Arthur; she winces at the sight of red seeping through the layers of bandages and gently leans her weight against the cot, reaching out to tuck the edge of the thin blanket in against his side. Because I owe him.
Eames’ brow furrows and his mouth opens but Cobb cuts him off, understanding that Ariadne will explain such a cryptic reason when she’s ready to do so. He’s not at all surprised that she considers herself in Arthur’s debt; he for one owes his former point man much more than he can ever even begin to repay. “Arthur,” he tells Ariadne quietly, in the same tone he’d once used to say This is my daughter, Phillipa, and We'll call him James Arthur Cobb. “His name is Arthur.”
Mouth closing, Eames turns away, his eyes fixed on the wooden floorboards beneath his feet. His hands twitch, as if itching to lift and to close around Arthur’s bandaged one, but he stays still, and says nothing.
- - - - -
10 August 2018
Mojave Desert, Nevada
2300 hours
“Is that it, then?”
Arthur starts and turns too quickly, banging his knee against the edge of the bunk. With a grimace, he turns to face the newcomer fully, putting the lovely shiner of his left eye fully on display. “Eames.”
“You’re going to slip off without even a word of farewell?” Eames continues, giving him a lopsided smile, filled with none of the venom one expects to be bubbling between two men who, just a few hours ago, had been doing their damnedest to beat the living daylights out of one another. He, too, sports a rather spectacular black eye and his nose is a swollen mess, taped up in the best way the army medics could manage. “That’s not very civil of you, darling.”
“I have a name, Eames,” Arthur mutters, turning away and shoving another set of clothes into the duffel bag sitting on his bunk. Strange, Eames expected him to be the type who neatly folds his clothes and possibly color coordinates them as well, one outfit for each day of the week. “Try using it sometime.”
“Not anytime soon though, yeah?” Arthur’s shoulders stiffen. When he does nothing else in response, Eames goes on, taking another step into the tent that’s empty save for the two of them; who knows where the others have gone. “Transferring to bigger and better things, or so a little bird told me.”
Arthur huffs out a small laugh. “Better not let Gordon hear you call him that.” He taps his fingers against the teeth of the zipper, then seals the duffel bag shut. In a motion that’s far too jerky, far too swift, and far too unlike himself, he swings the bag over his shoulder and turns to face Eames once again. There’s something uncertain in his dark gaze, one eye slightly swollen and circled by a shade even darker than his pupil, something hesitant flitting across the sharp, angular planes of his smooth-shaven cheeks and in his long throat as the Adam’s apple bobs up and down in a tight swallow. “Eames, I-”
“The Pentagon, is it?” Eames interrupts loudly, head ducking and scuffing the toe of his boot against the ground. He glances up, a quick flick of blue eyes, trying for a weak grin. “Their gain and my loss, apparently.”
“Eames…”
“And you should go, of course. Your wonderful talent is wasted here in the middle of the desert.”
The answering reply is a short scoff. “We shoot, stab, and strangle each other under the pretense of military procedure, only to wake up and run through the process all over again; that’s hardly-”
“You will write, won’t you?” He reaches out and brushes calloused fingertips against Arthur’s cheek. “Because I will most certainly miss you.”
The words hang in the scant space between them, thick and stifling. Arthur’s tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip - split from Eames’ knuckles - and Eames’ eyes follow the movement as if hypnotized. “What are we doing, Eames?” he asks, voice hushed.
“That, Arthur,” Eames says, equally softly, “is entirely up to you.”
- - - - -
In another lifetime, another time and place, some other universe or a dream - the armored car military-grade armored truck designed to take one Arthur L. Davidson to the closest airstrip in preparation for a one-way trip to Arlington County, Virginia, never leaves base. But of course, that means very little.
Within the hour, Arthur’s gone.
He doesn’t write.
* - * - *
It’s raining again, and the infernal, repetitive pitter-patter against the countless window panes covering the colossus of the main tower of Fischer Industries USA Headquarters like a giant mosaic usually works as a soothing distraction for the corporate heir, but right now, it grates on Robert’s nerves like someone dragging his eardrums over broken glass.
Scribbling a sloppy version of his signature on the report he’s barely skimmed, he pushes the file away and stands up, crossing the room and stopping in front of the floor to ceiling window, bulletproof and opaque, impossible to see through. Heaving a deep breath, Robert closes his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool surface.
He doesn’t cry, because God knows there have been enough tears, choked out in the utter stillness and darkness of his private quarters throughout the long, sleepless nights; he doesn’t rage against his godfather’s deception, slamming his fist into mirrors and walls and ending up having to take a trip to the infirmary; he simply stares out at the bubbled and distorted surface, thinking. He thinks of a pair of dark eyes belonging to a razor-slim shadow, he thinks of a neat signature curving gracefully along the bottom of a page - Captain Arthur L. Davidson - and of a private dinner, of a man who is bound by nothing, no oath or vow of allegiance, and yet who would kill for him. He thinks of a touch against the back of his hand, of Vivaldi, of twenty-three stitches, dark against pale skin. He thinks of Uncle Peter’s lies and his father’s distance and going on blind faith while being certain of nothing.
“Why do you think you’re never allowed outside, why your windows are tinted so dark you can’t see anything?”
“Project Extraction,” Robert murmurs quietly, tapping his fingertips against the glass. Then he turns, grabs a random file off his desk, and leaves the room, the door swinging shut behind him with an air of finality.
No more secrets.
- - - - -
The hallways en route to Peter Browning’s office are more densely populated than before, security having been upgraded ever since Captain Davidson’s clever disappearing act. There’s a man stationed every ten feet along the way, their backs to the wall and toes of their standard issue leather boots shining dully, staring straight ahead at nothing, hands ready to reach for a sidearm at a moment’s notice, ready to kill for the young Fischer heir, and Robert doesn’t trust a single one of them.
Curiously enough, the area around his godfather’s office is relatively deserted, and Robert looks up at the camera mounted up high in the corner, its lens pointed directly at him, and resists the childish urge to make a rude gesture. Instead, he raises a fist to knock - and pauses. Brow creasing, his hand goes to the doorknob although the door won’t open from the outside for anyone other than Peter Browning himself - or someone with his voice inflection and retinal patterns. “Uncle Peter?” Cautiously, Robert tilts his ear closer to the wood.
There is no mistaking it, though. Trumpets. Then, a woman’s voice: “Non, rien de rien…non, je ne regrette rein…”
Now Robert does knock, knuckles rapping smartly against wood. “Uncle Peter!”
The singing stops immediately and after a moment, multiple tumblers shift and the locks click open, allowing the door to open a crack, admitting the intruder. “Robert?” his godfather asks, frowning just a bit. “Something wrong?”
“I heard…” Robert glances around the interior of the office; nothing seems out of the ordinary. “Singing.” He lightly taps the file folder he holds in his hand against his left leg, trying to keep his tone casual. “Was…is there someone here?”
Peter chuckles. “Oh, no one but myself and the lovely Eidth Piaf.” He motions to the large, old-fashioned gramophone, moved from its previous place in Robert’s old office after the Fischer heir found he couldn’t bring himself to stare at it anymore, the memory of the plaintive longing on Captain Davidson’s face in response to the music still painfully seared into his brain. “Something you needed?”
It hasn’t been but a couple of weeks since Captain Davidson’s abrupt departure, and the relationship between godfather and godson is awkward and just a bit uncomfortable at best, but Robert isn’t above hoping that a peace, however tentative, can be made. That would, however, first and foremost require the truth. So he takes in a deep breath, looks the other man in the eye, and quietly asks, “Uncle Peter, what do you know about Project Extraction?”
“…Where did you hear about that?” Peter’s voice doesn’t shake but he’s frowning darkly, displeased with the question. And if the pause isn’t telling enough, his fingers drum relentlessly against the leather blotter on his desktop in a telltale sign of a nervous tic.
“I - from Captain Davidson.” The last syllable of the man’s name has barely rolled off Robert’s tongue when Peter’s frown changes into a full-fledged scowl.
“And you’re going to take that man’s word as worth anything?” he spits, disgusted. “The blabber of a traitor, a soldier who deserts his post for-”
“He’s a good man!” Robert retorts hotly, because the man in question is just that: good, in every sense of the word. His arms have gone stiff by his side, his fingers curled in tight towards the palms, and he doesn’t realize he’s shouted until a knock comes at the door, and a voice comes floating through the door.
“Mr. Browning? Everything alright in there, sir?”
Peter stares at his godson as if he’s never seen him before, then presses a button on his desk, speaking into the built-in intercom there, faintly, never taking his eyes from Robert’s face. “Yes, yes. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.”
In the silence that follows, as the footfalls of the guard fade away, Robert lifts his chin, inhaling deeply. He’s never yelled at his godfather before, never even raised his voice with the man, never spoken out of turn and it’s equal parts terrifying and liberating. “This was a mistake,” he says quietly, coldly, in a direct imitation of Captain Davidson’s steely voice. “I’m sorry. Good night, Uncle Peter.”
- - - - -
The door closes heavily behind Robert, locks clicking shut, and after a moment the woman’s voice comes again, this time without any music but musical in and of itself, silky smooth, all slurred elisions and dropped endings of words. “Does he not yet know?”
He transfers his glare from the space where his godson stood to the corner, where, from a shadowy niche between a bookshelf and the corner, a shapely figure steps further into the room. “I don’t intend on telling Robert anything,” he growls. So this is what the bastard had meant when he waved around that damn memory stick and smugly proclaimed he wasn’t the only one who knew about Project Extraction. Peter’s fingers curl into fists; Davidson meant to reveal to Robert everything Peter had worked so hard to keep from the poor boy’s knowledge, to drive a wedge between the Fischer heir and his godfather, to ruin absolutely everything. And now, with Robert starting to pry...
This is not going to end well.
“Hmm.” The woman sinks gracefully into one of the chairs in front of the desk, and puts her booted feet up on the leather desk blotter, ignoring Browning’s scowl. The butt of an M40 sniping rifle comes to rest alongside the leg of the chair. “He hates you.” The words are soft, the accent lilting and foreign to this soil, the tone slightly amused. “For driving Arthur away.”
Peter leans forward, voice low and angry. “If you had done your job and taken care of the slippery little fucker when ordered-”
“In this world no man orders me, Mr. Browning,” the woman interrupts sharply, dangerous. Her blue gaze sharpens as her eyes narrow. “Do you think you are dreaming?” At the resultant silence, she sits back with all the sinuous grace of a feline, one hand caressing the barrel of the rifle, fingernails tapping lightly against the metal. “And what if we are?” she purrs. “What is real, what is not real in this world; how can you be certain of that which you cannot define?” After a moment, she tilts her head back, and quietly begins to sing again. “Non, je ne regrette rien…”
Peter Browning shifts uneasily and tries for a smile that comes out looking more like a grimace, and right outside the door Robert’s fist clenches tight, brow creased, face dark and jaw screwed tight.
* - * - *
May 15, 2028
I miss it, sometimes. Life before the Wars.
Not necessarily the big stuff, either. Sometimes all I want to do is flop down on the couch, watch some crap T.V., and veg out. Some Cheetos would be pretty amazing right about now. And maybe some coffee; oh I would KILL for a mocha cappuccino. On the last raid, Eames and the others came back with a couple jars of instant, which is better than nothing. The next one is scheduled in a week, though I doubt there’ll be a raid at all.
Araidne lifts her head and glances at the still figure she sits keeping vigil beside (she, Eames, and Cobb take shifts; no one else is allowed within a ten foot radius of the medical cabin, barring Natasha) and bites the inside of her cheek. No, it’s highly unlikely Eames or Cobb will be leaving Sherwood anytime soon, and Michelle can’t manage a raid on her own.
Our Father, who art in Heaven… It’s an old invocation, dredged up from the very back of her mind, taken from a time when people still had faith, when people still had something to believe in, when they still allowed themselves that luxury. While Ariadne didn’t grow up attending Church every Sunday or getting down on her knees every night for confession, that doesn’t mean she isn’t allowed to pray for a dying man who certainly doesn’t deserve to suffer like this. Although there are many who won’t hesitate to argue the exact opposite and rather vehemently at that, Ariadne is far too stubborn to let the cruel and judgmental words of others influence her determination of a person’s worth. No matter what anyone says of or about him, the man lying here beaten within an inch of death’s doorstep, has her good opinion - however much that may or may not be worth - and her support.
She may be young, but Ariadne has seen the end of the world and what it does to people, the cruelty and savagery that lurks just beneath the surface of reason and propriety of supposedly civilized folk. She’s seen both the good and the bad in the simplest of terms, one a godsend of mercy and the other in all of its ugly spectacle, and Arthur Davidson is neither. He is a man not without conscience, but who can ignore it when he deems it necessary, who is capable both of what most consider acts of great immorality and heroic standing, a true Machiavellian prince to whom the ends justify all means, even if such means require donning the uniform of the enemy. It’s not for his own sake, never for his own sake, and what he has done can never really be called good, but in order to achieve that which is right.
And although she doesn’t know nearly enough about Arthur personally to be making such judgment calls, Ariadne is certain that a heartless traitor with no regard for human rights or the welfare of others would not have taken the trouble to stop the violation of a girl he didn’t know and to whom he owed absolutely nothing.
Carefully, she reaches out and puts two fingers against the other’s wrist, against the blue and green veins standing out starkly under skin like rice paper (too white, too fragile, too breakable), searching out the thready pulse, breathing out a sigh of relief when she finds it, as she always does.
Ariadne doesn’t kid herself, though (something else that she misses from before the end of the world, the ability to take her own knowledge for granted, to play the part of the fool at times because it used to be that not everyone could be expected to carry the burden of being right all the time. Now, the slightest error means irreparable damage or worse.), she knows hope and faith aren’t enough to keep Arthur going for much longer. Nothing short of a miracle can ensure that, and in times like these, those are rather difficult to come by.
“No. In fact, fuck no.”
Her head raises at Cobb’s words, muffled but undeniably angry, coming from right outside the door. Eames’ voice rumbles out a murmur of a reply, and Ariadne sets her journal aside, curiosity getting the better of her. With a backwards glance at Arthur, she stands and creeps quietly over to the door.
“No matter how many times you bring this up, Eames, my answer isn’t going to change.” Cobb sounds like he’s right on the cusp of two separate emotions, teetering dangerously between frustrated exasperation and outright anger. It’s not a good sign.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Cobb.” Eames, on the other hand, sounds more tired than anything else. “ It’s the only way-”
“Not without his consent first.”
“Consent?” Eames snorts in derision. “He’s unconscious three quarters of the time and upon the rare occasions he’s actually awake, the man is half-delirious and can’t even tell up from down!”
“And you think those are proper conditions for an extraction?” Cobb’s tone holds the sharp click of a key in a lock. “When the subject is half-delirious with pain and post-traumatic stress?”
“He’s not going to bloody consent to having anyone go gallivanting about in his mind, much less me-”
“Which is why, once again, the answer is still no.”
Silence for a moment, and Ariadne presses her ear against the wood just in time to catch a scoff from Eames. “You have so much faith in him, do you?” The man’s voice is sharper now, no longer weary, tinged with a bitterness she can’t even begin to guess at. It’s heavy with guilt and longing, weighed down by words unspoken and promises never fulfilled, with loss and regret and memories too painful to bear, but impossible to forget.
Cobb had given her a brief synopsis of Arthur and Eames’ history together, how they met in a joint military effort known as The Program, the world’s first excursion into dream-sharing technology, how he can’t say anything about the nature of their relationship (because he honestly doesn’t know - how would one define a relationship with men as mysterious as Arthur Davidson or as changeable as William Eames?), and very little else to go on. But although Cobb isn’t exactly the talkative type, it doesn’t take any proper genius or an expert in the field of behavioral psychology to decipher much from Eames’ emergency run for O negative blood earlier that morning or the intensity with which he watches over Arthur’s still form during his shifts, two fingers pressed gently against the other man’s wrist, his eyes wary and guarded as they focus on the play of veins and tendons beneath the skin, as if he’s afraid they’ll betray something vital and secret.
Most telling, though, is the strange incident Ariadne witnessed just the other morning. Watching Eames come into the cabin with a cake of soap, a bristled brush, a hot towel - hard to come by, given that the damn plumbing had cut out again - and a straight razor had put her on guard instantly, her wariness only waning as Eames started carefully soaping Arthur’s face with slow, precise motions. It’d been replaced by an awkward sense of embarrassment as Eames then began to move the blade carefully across Arthur’s skin, up and down the angular planes of his cheeks, hands large and gentle against the emerging paleness of Arthur’s jaw, his cheeks, his white column of a throat.
Ariadne had left not long after, distinctly uncomfortable with what she could tell was something intimate and private and certainly not for the prying eyes of any outside party. Later, when she finally plucked up enough nerve to mention the incident in question, the only reason Eames gave for his actions was a half-mumbled explanation that included the words poncy point man and habitual bastard.
“Yeah. I do,” Cobb says, quietly.
“Well, it’s misplaced.” And there, right there, despite Eames’ caustic words and snappish tone, Ariadne catches just a hint of something hurt and unguarded there, and she imagines just a brief look of wistfulness flitting across his rugged features, eyebrows pulling in towards each other, cheeks tightening and worrying the scar tissue on his face.
The pause that follows is one that Ariadne often associates with one of Cobb’s infamous squint-eyed staring contests. “It could kill him, Eames.”
Eames’ reply is a truly terrible stab at mockery. “And that’s supposed to matter to me, is it?”
You’re a lying liar who lies, Eames. Ariadne thinks, unable to stop the utterly disdainful curl of her lip, and finds that she doesn’t feel sorry for him when the sound of what is undoubtedly Cobb’s fist making an acquaintance with Eames’ face floats through the door.
“Mal?”
Ariadne starts at the breathless whisper that’s more of a whimper than anything else, and turns just long enough to see Arthur’s dark eyes staring at her, fever-glazed and hazy and unfocused in his face before she reaches out and flings open the door, grabbing the arm of the man standing closest - Cobb, as it turns out; Eames is nursing a busted lip. She all but drags him inside the medical cabin and over to the bedside, where Arthur is making a valiant effort to prop himself up on his elbow, eyes roving wildly around at his surroundings, breathing labored and wheezing painfully in his chest. “...Mal?” His weak voice cracks on that single syllable and he’s still staring at Ariadne in disbelief, stretching out a hand to reach for her. It’s not the wisest course of action, given the flush in his cheeks indicative of fever and the extent of his injuries, and Arthur loses his balance, nearly falling over the side of the narrow cot.
“Arthur!” Cobb moves to break the fall, taking Arthur’s full weight as the younger man slumps limply against him, muscles weak and uncooperative, his shoulder muffling Arthur’s soft cry of pain as the abrupt movements jostle his wounds. “Arthur, take it easy; you’ve got to-”
“Cobb,” Arthur gasps, the word half-garbled and nearly unintelligible as he scrabbles weakly at Cobb’s arms for purchase, lifting his head with effort. “Cobb, I saw...Mal, she...she was here.” His eyes are frenzied, glassy as he swivels his head this way and that, gaze now sliding right over Ariadne as if she’s invisible, looking for someone else, for a ghost from the past, a friend long gone. “Where...?”
“Shh,” Cobb says soothingly, trying to maneuver him back into bed - a difficult task with Arthur clinging to him in earnest and the mess of tubes going in and out of his wrists, connecting to bags of Clonidine and Kemstro and blood - “Listen to me, Arthur, you’re fine now, you’re okay.”
A blatant lie.
“Cobb?” Eames voice is quiet and unsure; he hangs back, loitering hesitantly near the door. “Does he-” He stops short when Arthur turns his head and pins him with a bleary-eyed stare.
“Eames,” Arthur slurs, sounding breathless, eyelashes dark against his clean-shaven cheeks as Cobb gently lays him back down. He murmurs something softly, unintelligible, brow tightening momentarily in pain before it smoothes out in drug-induced sleep once again.
Ariadne watches Eames’ throat work convulsively, catches glimpse of a suspicious glimmer at the corner of his eyes, watches him press those ridiculous lips together tight until they’re a thin, bloodless line. Not much cop, is it, Mr. “And that’s supposed to matter to me”? She thinks spitefully, following the stiff set of the broad shoulders as Eames turns and quickly walks away. This whole ‘not caring’ facade.
* - * - *
Fischer Industries Headquarters is a steel cage of dead ends and cameras mounted high at every corridor, a maze that even the most skilled navigators find themselves getting lost in day in and day out. The floor plans of the main building were drafted up by more than five different architects, construction was a damn nightmare, and despite living (being imprisoned) on the compound for the better part of two years, Robert rarely travels anywhere other than the normal routes from his private quarters to his office, to Uncle Peter’s office and upon rare occasions, the Achieve Room, for fear of wandering around aimlessly for hours until getting found by security and having to explain himself to his godfather.
Even with a highly-detailed, comprehensive map of the layout of the building in hand, it takes Robert more than thirty minutes and four attempts at retracing his steps to find his way to the Central Security Hub (the broom closet that used to serve as Captain Davidson’s office and living quarters sits just a hop, skip, and a jump away down the hall and around the corridor, now empty and cleaned out; the blood once spilled across the floors long ago scrubbed away and bleached out of existence). Once there, after just a little bit of clever maneuvering - Robert is, despite being so easily manipulated by those he once thought of as family, rather keen and quick on his feet - he emerges victorious with an hour by himself and the security recordings of the entire building, a stack of DVDs with footage going back as far as three months.
The Captain is a wraith darting through the hallways of the building, a shadowy figure that flits in and out of the camera frames, always quick and fleeting and lasting for no more than a few seconds in each shot. He’s a sharp black-and-white image that flickers in and out of each frame, walking the corridors of the entire complex like he owns it, never a misstep or wrong turn, each stride measured and steady.
Robert pauses the image and gently presses the his fingers against the screen, the familiar, sharp tug of longing in his chest bubbling up and threatening to choke him, now fiercer and more insistent than ever. He’s immediately annoyed at himself, frustrated that he can’t even maintain a poor veneer of objectivity for five goddamn minutes, angry at his inability to distance himself from what clearly never was and never will be. Quashing down the feeling with grim determination, he taps at the touch screen with perhaps more force than necessary, fast forwarding through thousands of pixelated images (papers scattering all over the hallway and help from an unexpected source, Vivaldi in the middle of the night, a black three-piece suit and a blood red tie, the fleeting brush of a hand against his arm) and stopping the flash of images with another tap of his fingers. Hesitantly, his fingers hover over the screen for a fraction of an instant before descending upon the play button.
Onscreen, he bends carefully over the bed and the Captain reaches up and brings a hand to the back of his neck, pulling him close to whisper a cryptic message in his ear and Robert flushes, his own hand going to the back of his neck. He watches himself dare to lightly brush Captain Davidson’s cheek with the very tips of his fingers, much like the way he touches the screen now, before more or less beating a hasty retreat out of the medical bay, casting a brief glance over his shoulder on the way out.
Less than ten seconds later, the Captain’s eyes open, dark against the stark whiteness of his surroundings. He quickly pulls the IV out of his wrist and slips out of bed, moving out of the camera’s frame with equal swiftness, as sure-footed as a fox.
Inwardly cursing his own incompetence - a quick switch to camera M-418 right outside the medical bay shows the Captain moving in the opposite direction down the very same hallway as the onscreen image of the Fischer heir himself - Robert skims the rest of the disk, then starts turning in a semi-circle to scan through the rest of the footage of the cameras from floor to floor, searching for any sign of him. It’s no easy task; Captain Davidson is careful to avoid being seen, and it’s only by chance, or perhaps sheer dumb luck that Robert remembers.
“Someplace everyone least expects,” he murmurs and searches through the stack of DVDs, snatching up the one that is literally untouched, the disk unscratched, never played.
“What’s the most important component of security?”
Captain Davidson looks thoughtful, tapping a finger lightly against the tabletop - no uniform tonight, no leather gloves - and he doesn’t look at Robert so much as watches him, as if he’s a particularly interesting specimen. “Where do we normally put things that are meant to be secret?”
Robert puts down his fork. “Safes. Strongboxes. Vaults.”
“Exactly. But those are the obvious answers. For maximum security, the safe has to be someplace everyone least expects,” the Captain prompts, steepling his fingers and staring at him intently. “Specificity is important.”
“I...” Robert gazes at the wineglass in front of him, trying to keep from squirming under the scrutiny. The discussion throughout dinner has been on a myriad of topics without so much as an awkward pause, and the Captain has proven himself to be quite the conversationalist, handling the situation with admirable tact. Robert has the distinct feeling that his simple inquiry has somehow given the other man pause. “I’m not sure I get your meaning, Captain.”
“Let’s put it this way: I say to you, don’t think about elephants. What are you thinking about?”
Robert frowns, but can’t help the bemused smile that touches his lips as he answers, truthfully. “...Elephants.”
“Exactly. But that’s not your idea, is it? It’s what everyone thinks about after that leading question.” Captain Davidson sits back. “So if I were to try taking something away from you, where would you hide it if everyone’s thinking of elephants, if everyone expects it to be put under lock and key in the most obscure location possible?”
“...In plain sight,” Robert says in sudden realization. “Some place so common, so pedestrian that it should be the obvious choice.”
“Impressive, Mr. Fischer,” Captain Davidson says with a small nod of approval, a nondescript gesture that nonetheless sends heat rushing immediately to Robert’s cheeks. “You’re a quick study.”
All the while he’d been stumbling over himself at the praise so rarely received, the other man had been trying to tell him something, and Robert wants to kick himself for not seeing it sooner, for not understanding.
After Captain Davidson’s disappearance, half of nearly all of Fischer Industries personnel spent the better part of half a week scouring security footage for a clue as to how the man in question managed to escape from the premises, wounded as he was, and what sensitive information he may or may not have taken and run away with, while the other half spent looking through the confidential archives and destroying all traces of sensitive information. The entire investigation was conducted in the utmost secrecy due to Browning’s attempts to simultaneously salvage his damaged relationship with his godson and to refrain from drawing Robert’s attention to the exact nature of the information Davidson stole.
Not nearly discreet enough, though, for while Robert knows little about the details of what’s being kept from him, what he does know is that his godfather was willing to kill - or hire others to do the dirty work for him, anyway - to keep it under wraps, a secret that now has a name: Project Extraction.
Impatiently, Robert scans through the footage, and makes a small triumphant noise in the back of his throat when Captain Davidson steps into frame - quite deliberately, from the looks of it, dressed in a remarkably undistinguished black ensemble, all the better to remain unseen - and steps up to the door, unlocking the lock with a duplicate key, and slips inside the room.
Ejecting the disk, Robert takes it in hand and turns, running out of the Central Security Hub. Surprisingly, he remembers the way fairly well even without the help of a navigation aid, and remains completely unaware of the shadow following him at a distance, nonchalantly whistling a quiet tune.
- - - - -
Okay, Captain. Robert stands in his living quarters, facing his private vault, the most easily accessible vault in the entire complex, secured only by a simple three-number combination (his late mother’s date of death) spin dial lock. Of course not even Uncle Peter would care to look in someplace so glaringly obvious, so painfully easy. In plain sight, and what would be plainer than something that Robert sees everyday, a secret placed inside his own personal vault? What’ve you put in here for me to find?
The steel door opens easily enough, and Robert carefully takes out the small box filled with Captain Davidson’s personal effects, leaving the interior of the safe bare, save for a small paper pinwheel and - he exhales slowly, a huff of disbelief mingled with a shaky laugh at the sight of the small USB drive tucked away in the furthest corner of the safe, black plastic cover against the shiny grey of steel. Carefully setting the box on the floor, he reaches in and takes the tiny device out, hefting it in the palm of his hand.
He doesn’t have to do this, Robert realizes with a start, and closes his fingers around the memory stick. He can forget all of this, stay ignorant of that which his godfather so desperately wants to keep from him, what everyone else but he seems to know. He can forget ever having heard about Project Extraction and everything the Captain ever said, forget all about the discussion of elephants over dinner and twenty-three stitches, forget all about the man himself.
“Why do you think your father doesn’t want you back?”
Sitting down right there on the carpet, cross-legged like a schoolboy, Robert gently runs the tips of his fingers over the Vivaldi vinyl record, takes a deep breath, and looks over to the laptop sitting over on his desk.
* - * - *
Part 7b
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, unrequited Robert/Arthur, past Cobb/Mal, hinted Robert/Ariadne, Browning, Saito
Rating: R
Word Count: 6,417
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!! ♥ ♥ ♥
Natasha leaves quickly without making any excuses, in much the same way as she’d seen to the rather extensive list of all of Arthur’s injuries: methodically, carefully, and without a word, professional through and through. In the five hours that she works on stabilizing the injured man she’d been presented with, Arthur became just another patient, nameless and faceless - or at least that’s what Natasha’s manner suggested - and Cobb felt himself breathing just a little bit easier, reassured that the physician wasn’t about to grab a scalpel and stab Arthur to death as he lay there on the operating table, pumped full of all the sedative that can be spared and utterly defenseless.
A lump forms in his throat and Cobb looks away from the pile of bloody gauze and jars of burn ointment. He has a desperate urge for a smoke right about now, but he knows he won’t and can’t, not after seeing the hideous circular burn marks covering the palms and backs of Arthur’s hands, wounds made from the glowing end of a lit cigarette. It’s strange and wholly disconcerting seeing his former point man lying on the single cot - Eames had insisted on being the one to move him, a point that Cobb didn’t see any reason to oppose or protest - like a broken doll some nasty kid had torn apart and that they were now trying to put back together with duct tape and bandages and stupid, stupid hope.
He hasn’t let himself believe in anything as fragile and empty as hope in a long time, Cobb thinks as he absent-mindedly rubs at the golden band on his fourth finger. Belatedly, he wishes that he hadn’t been so hasty in killing Gordon because right about now, he can really do with smashing his fist into the sadistic fucker’s face.
There comes a knock at the door and Cobb has his Colt .45 in hand and pointed in that same direction without even thinking, then quickly hides it from sight when Ariadne’s head pokes into the room, eyes wide and inquisitive and focused entirely on Arthur’s still form. His brow creases and he doesn’t put the gun away, not yet.
Eames glances up from his position right by Arthur’s side. “Ariadne?” he asks, clearly just as puzzled as Cobb as to why the young woman would be here.
Is he going to be okay? Ariadne signs, moving cautiously into the room, biting her lower lip.
Eames shoots Cobb a wordless glance and Cobb shrugs his shoulders, a minute gesture. Arthur’s current condition is unstable at best, requiring twenty-four hour supervision lest his heart stops without anyone noticing, given that Sherwood isn’t so fortunate as to have a working heart monitor or the electricity necessary to sustain such equipment. “Nothing’s certain yet, dove.”
Ariadne steps to the foot of the cot and stares at Arthur with a strange expression on her face, gratitude and concern and the slightest bit of hesitation all rolled into one. What’s his name?
Cobb speaks up then, trying to keep all hints of accusation and suspicion out of his tone, and not knowing whether or not he succeeds. “Why the need to know?”
Because… Ariadne hesitates, her gaze still trained on Arthur; she winces at the sight of red seeping through the layers of bandages and gently leans her weight against the cot, reaching out to tuck the edge of the thin blanket in against his side. Because I owe him.
Eames’ brow furrows and his mouth opens but Cobb cuts him off, understanding that Ariadne will explain such a cryptic reason when she’s ready to do so. He’s not at all surprised that she considers herself in Arthur’s debt; he for one owes his former point man much more than he can ever even begin to repay. “Arthur,” he tells Ariadne quietly, in the same tone he’d once used to say This is my daughter, Phillipa, and We'll call him James Arthur Cobb. “His name is Arthur.”
Mouth closing, Eames turns away, his eyes fixed on the wooden floorboards beneath his feet. His hands twitch, as if itching to lift and to close around Arthur’s bandaged one, but he stays still, and says nothing.
- - - - -
10 August 2018
Mojave Desert, Nevada
2300 hours
“Is that it, then?”
Arthur starts and turns too quickly, banging his knee against the edge of the bunk. With a grimace, he turns to face the newcomer fully, putting the lovely shiner of his left eye fully on display. “Eames.”
“You’re going to slip off without even a word of farewell?” Eames continues, giving him a lopsided smile, filled with none of the venom one expects to be bubbling between two men who, just a few hours ago, had been doing their damnedest to beat the living daylights out of one another. He, too, sports a rather spectacular black eye and his nose is a swollen mess, taped up in the best way the army medics could manage. “That’s not very civil of you, darling.”
“I have a name, Eames,” Arthur mutters, turning away and shoving another set of clothes into the duffel bag sitting on his bunk. Strange, Eames expected him to be the type who neatly folds his clothes and possibly color coordinates them as well, one outfit for each day of the week. “Try using it sometime.”
“Not anytime soon though, yeah?” Arthur’s shoulders stiffen. When he does nothing else in response, Eames goes on, taking another step into the tent that’s empty save for the two of them; who knows where the others have gone. “Transferring to bigger and better things, or so a little bird told me.”
Arthur huffs out a small laugh. “Better not let Gordon hear you call him that.” He taps his fingers against the teeth of the zipper, then seals the duffel bag shut. In a motion that’s far too jerky, far too swift, and far too unlike himself, he swings the bag over his shoulder and turns to face Eames once again. There’s something uncertain in his dark gaze, one eye slightly swollen and circled by a shade even darker than his pupil, something hesitant flitting across the sharp, angular planes of his smooth-shaven cheeks and in his long throat as the Adam’s apple bobs up and down in a tight swallow. “Eames, I-”
“The Pentagon, is it?” Eames interrupts loudly, head ducking and scuffing the toe of his boot against the ground. He glances up, a quick flick of blue eyes, trying for a weak grin. “Their gain and my loss, apparently.”
“Eames…”
“And you should go, of course. Your wonderful talent is wasted here in the middle of the desert.”
The answering reply is a short scoff. “We shoot, stab, and strangle each other under the pretense of military procedure, only to wake up and run through the process all over again; that’s hardly-”
“You will write, won’t you?” He reaches out and brushes calloused fingertips against Arthur’s cheek. “Because I will most certainly miss you.”
The words hang in the scant space between them, thick and stifling. Arthur’s tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip - split from Eames’ knuckles - and Eames’ eyes follow the movement as if hypnotized. “What are we doing, Eames?” he asks, voice hushed.
“That, Arthur,” Eames says, equally softly, “is entirely up to you.”
- - - - -
In another lifetime, another time and place, some other universe or a dream - the armored car military-grade armored truck designed to take one Arthur L. Davidson to the closest airstrip in preparation for a one-way trip to Arlington County, Virginia, never leaves base. But of course, that means very little.
Within the hour, Arthur’s gone.
He doesn’t write.
* - * - *
It’s raining again, and the infernal, repetitive pitter-patter against the countless window panes covering the colossus of the main tower of Fischer Industries USA Headquarters like a giant mosaic usually works as a soothing distraction for the corporate heir, but right now, it grates on Robert’s nerves like someone dragging his eardrums over broken glass.
Scribbling a sloppy version of his signature on the report he’s barely skimmed, he pushes the file away and stands up, crossing the room and stopping in front of the floor to ceiling window, bulletproof and opaque, impossible to see through. Heaving a deep breath, Robert closes his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool surface.
He doesn’t cry, because God knows there have been enough tears, choked out in the utter stillness and darkness of his private quarters throughout the long, sleepless nights; he doesn’t rage against his godfather’s deception, slamming his fist into mirrors and walls and ending up having to take a trip to the infirmary; he simply stares out at the bubbled and distorted surface, thinking. He thinks of a pair of dark eyes belonging to a razor-slim shadow, he thinks of a neat signature curving gracefully along the bottom of a page - Captain Arthur L. Davidson - and of a private dinner, of a man who is bound by nothing, no oath or vow of allegiance, and yet who would kill for him. He thinks of a touch against the back of his hand, of Vivaldi, of twenty-three stitches, dark against pale skin. He thinks of Uncle Peter’s lies and his father’s distance and going on blind faith while being certain of nothing.
“Why do you think you’re never allowed outside, why your windows are tinted so dark you can’t see anything?”
“Project Extraction,” Robert murmurs quietly, tapping his fingertips against the glass. Then he turns, grabs a random file off his desk, and leaves the room, the door swinging shut behind him with an air of finality.
No more secrets.
- - - - -
The hallways en route to Peter Browning’s office are more densely populated than before, security having been upgraded ever since Captain Davidson’s clever disappearing act. There’s a man stationed every ten feet along the way, their backs to the wall and toes of their standard issue leather boots shining dully, staring straight ahead at nothing, hands ready to reach for a sidearm at a moment’s notice, ready to kill for the young Fischer heir, and Robert doesn’t trust a single one of them.
Curiously enough, the area around his godfather’s office is relatively deserted, and Robert looks up at the camera mounted up high in the corner, its lens pointed directly at him, and resists the childish urge to make a rude gesture. Instead, he raises a fist to knock - and pauses. Brow creasing, his hand goes to the doorknob although the door won’t open from the outside for anyone other than Peter Browning himself - or someone with his voice inflection and retinal patterns. “Uncle Peter?” Cautiously, Robert tilts his ear closer to the wood.
There is no mistaking it, though. Trumpets. Then, a woman’s voice: “Non, rien de rien…non, je ne regrette rein…”
Now Robert does knock, knuckles rapping smartly against wood. “Uncle Peter!”
The singing stops immediately and after a moment, multiple tumblers shift and the locks click open, allowing the door to open a crack, admitting the intruder. “Robert?” his godfather asks, frowning just a bit. “Something wrong?”
“I heard…” Robert glances around the interior of the office; nothing seems out of the ordinary. “Singing.” He lightly taps the file folder he holds in his hand against his left leg, trying to keep his tone casual. “Was…is there someone here?”
Peter chuckles. “Oh, no one but myself and the lovely Eidth Piaf.” He motions to the large, old-fashioned gramophone, moved from its previous place in Robert’s old office after the Fischer heir found he couldn’t bring himself to stare at it anymore, the memory of the plaintive longing on Captain Davidson’s face in response to the music still painfully seared into his brain. “Something you needed?”
It hasn’t been but a couple of weeks since Captain Davidson’s abrupt departure, and the relationship between godfather and godson is awkward and just a bit uncomfortable at best, but Robert isn’t above hoping that a peace, however tentative, can be made. That would, however, first and foremost require the truth. So he takes in a deep breath, looks the other man in the eye, and quietly asks, “Uncle Peter, what do you know about Project Extraction?”
“…Where did you hear about that?” Peter’s voice doesn’t shake but he’s frowning darkly, displeased with the question. And if the pause isn’t telling enough, his fingers drum relentlessly against the leather blotter on his desktop in a telltale sign of a nervous tic.
“I - from Captain Davidson.” The last syllable of the man’s name has barely rolled off Robert’s tongue when Peter’s frown changes into a full-fledged scowl.
“And you’re going to take that man’s word as worth anything?” he spits, disgusted. “The blabber of a traitor, a soldier who deserts his post for-”
“He’s a good man!” Robert retorts hotly, because the man in question is just that: good, in every sense of the word. His arms have gone stiff by his side, his fingers curled in tight towards the palms, and he doesn’t realize he’s shouted until a knock comes at the door, and a voice comes floating through the door.
“Mr. Browning? Everything alright in there, sir?”
Peter stares at his godson as if he’s never seen him before, then presses a button on his desk, speaking into the built-in intercom there, faintly, never taking his eyes from Robert’s face. “Yes, yes. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.”
In the silence that follows, as the footfalls of the guard fade away, Robert lifts his chin, inhaling deeply. He’s never yelled at his godfather before, never even raised his voice with the man, never spoken out of turn and it’s equal parts terrifying and liberating. “This was a mistake,” he says quietly, coldly, in a direct imitation of Captain Davidson’s steely voice. “I’m sorry. Good night, Uncle Peter.”
- - - - -
The door closes heavily behind Robert, locks clicking shut, and after a moment the woman’s voice comes again, this time without any music but musical in and of itself, silky smooth, all slurred elisions and dropped endings of words. “Does he not yet know?”
He transfers his glare from the space where his godson stood to the corner, where, from a shadowy niche between a bookshelf and the corner, a shapely figure steps further into the room. “I don’t intend on telling Robert anything,” he growls. So this is what the bastard had meant when he waved around that damn memory stick and smugly proclaimed he wasn’t the only one who knew about Project Extraction. Peter’s fingers curl into fists; Davidson meant to reveal to Robert everything Peter had worked so hard to keep from the poor boy’s knowledge, to drive a wedge between the Fischer heir and his godfather, to ruin absolutely everything. And now, with Robert starting to pry...
This is not going to end well.
“Hmm.” The woman sinks gracefully into one of the chairs in front of the desk, and puts her booted feet up on the leather desk blotter, ignoring Browning’s scowl. The butt of an M40 sniping rifle comes to rest alongside the leg of the chair. “He hates you.” The words are soft, the accent lilting and foreign to this soil, the tone slightly amused. “For driving Arthur away.”
Peter leans forward, voice low and angry. “If you had done your job and taken care of the slippery little fucker when ordered-”
“In this world no man orders me, Mr. Browning,” the woman interrupts sharply, dangerous. Her blue gaze sharpens as her eyes narrow. “Do you think you are dreaming?” At the resultant silence, she sits back with all the sinuous grace of a feline, one hand caressing the barrel of the rifle, fingernails tapping lightly against the metal. “And what if we are?” she purrs. “What is real, what is not real in this world; how can you be certain of that which you cannot define?” After a moment, she tilts her head back, and quietly begins to sing again. “Non, je ne regrette rien…”
Peter Browning shifts uneasily and tries for a smile that comes out looking more like a grimace, and right outside the door Robert’s fist clenches tight, brow creased, face dark and jaw screwed tight.
* - * - *
May 15, 2028
I miss it, sometimes. Life before the Wars.
Not necessarily the big stuff, either. Sometimes all I want to do is flop down on the couch, watch some crap T.V., and veg out. Some Cheetos would be pretty amazing right about now. And maybe some coffee; oh I would KILL for a mocha cappuccino. On the last raid, Eames and the others came back with a couple jars of instant, which is better than nothing. The next one is scheduled in a week, though I doubt there’ll be a raid at all.
Araidne lifts her head and glances at the still figure she sits keeping vigil beside (she, Eames, and Cobb take shifts; no one else is allowed within a ten foot radius of the medical cabin, barring Natasha) and bites the inside of her cheek. No, it’s highly unlikely Eames or Cobb will be leaving Sherwood anytime soon, and Michelle can’t manage a raid on her own.
Our Father, who art in Heaven… It’s an old invocation, dredged up from the very back of her mind, taken from a time when people still had faith, when people still had something to believe in, when they still allowed themselves that luxury. While Ariadne didn’t grow up attending Church every Sunday or getting down on her knees every night for confession, that doesn’t mean she isn’t allowed to pray for a dying man who certainly doesn’t deserve to suffer like this. Although there are many who won’t hesitate to argue the exact opposite and rather vehemently at that, Ariadne is far too stubborn to let the cruel and judgmental words of others influence her determination of a person’s worth. No matter what anyone says of or about him, the man lying here beaten within an inch of death’s doorstep, has her good opinion - however much that may or may not be worth - and her support.
She may be young, but Ariadne has seen the end of the world and what it does to people, the cruelty and savagery that lurks just beneath the surface of reason and propriety of supposedly civilized folk. She’s seen both the good and the bad in the simplest of terms, one a godsend of mercy and the other in all of its ugly spectacle, and Arthur Davidson is neither. He is a man not without conscience, but who can ignore it when he deems it necessary, who is capable both of what most consider acts of great immorality and heroic standing, a true Machiavellian prince to whom the ends justify all means, even if such means require donning the uniform of the enemy. It’s not for his own sake, never for his own sake, and what he has done can never really be called good, but in order to achieve that which is right.
And although she doesn’t know nearly enough about Arthur personally to be making such judgment calls, Ariadne is certain that a heartless traitor with no regard for human rights or the welfare of others would not have taken the trouble to stop the violation of a girl he didn’t know and to whom he owed absolutely nothing.
Carefully, she reaches out and puts two fingers against the other’s wrist, against the blue and green veins standing out starkly under skin like rice paper (too white, too fragile, too breakable), searching out the thready pulse, breathing out a sigh of relief when she finds it, as she always does.
Ariadne doesn’t kid herself, though (something else that she misses from before the end of the world, the ability to take her own knowledge for granted, to play the part of the fool at times because it used to be that not everyone could be expected to carry the burden of being right all the time. Now, the slightest error means irreparable damage or worse.), she knows hope and faith aren’t enough to keep Arthur going for much longer. Nothing short of a miracle can ensure that, and in times like these, those are rather difficult to come by.
“No. In fact, fuck no.”
Her head raises at Cobb’s words, muffled but undeniably angry, coming from right outside the door. Eames’ voice rumbles out a murmur of a reply, and Ariadne sets her journal aside, curiosity getting the better of her. With a backwards glance at Arthur, she stands and creeps quietly over to the door.
“No matter how many times you bring this up, Eames, my answer isn’t going to change.” Cobb sounds like he’s right on the cusp of two separate emotions, teetering dangerously between frustrated exasperation and outright anger. It’s not a good sign.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Cobb.” Eames, on the other hand, sounds more tired than anything else. “ It’s the only way-”
“Not without his consent first.”
“Consent?” Eames snorts in derision. “He’s unconscious three quarters of the time and upon the rare occasions he’s actually awake, the man is half-delirious and can’t even tell up from down!”
“And you think those are proper conditions for an extraction?” Cobb’s tone holds the sharp click of a key in a lock. “When the subject is half-delirious with pain and post-traumatic stress?”
“He’s not going to bloody consent to having anyone go gallivanting about in his mind, much less me-”
“Which is why, once again, the answer is still no.”
Silence for a moment, and Ariadne presses her ear against the wood just in time to catch a scoff from Eames. “You have so much faith in him, do you?” The man’s voice is sharper now, no longer weary, tinged with a bitterness she can’t even begin to guess at. It’s heavy with guilt and longing, weighed down by words unspoken and promises never fulfilled, with loss and regret and memories too painful to bear, but impossible to forget.
Cobb had given her a brief synopsis of Arthur and Eames’ history together, how they met in a joint military effort known as The Program, the world’s first excursion into dream-sharing technology, how he can’t say anything about the nature of their relationship (because he honestly doesn’t know - how would one define a relationship with men as mysterious as Arthur Davidson or as changeable as William Eames?), and very little else to go on. But although Cobb isn’t exactly the talkative type, it doesn’t take any proper genius or an expert in the field of behavioral psychology to decipher much from Eames’ emergency run for O negative blood earlier that morning or the intensity with which he watches over Arthur’s still form during his shifts, two fingers pressed gently against the other man’s wrist, his eyes wary and guarded as they focus on the play of veins and tendons beneath the skin, as if he’s afraid they’ll betray something vital and secret.
Most telling, though, is the strange incident Ariadne witnessed just the other morning. Watching Eames come into the cabin with a cake of soap, a bristled brush, a hot towel - hard to come by, given that the damn plumbing had cut out again - and a straight razor had put her on guard instantly, her wariness only waning as Eames started carefully soaping Arthur’s face with slow, precise motions. It’d been replaced by an awkward sense of embarrassment as Eames then began to move the blade carefully across Arthur’s skin, up and down the angular planes of his cheeks, hands large and gentle against the emerging paleness of Arthur’s jaw, his cheeks, his white column of a throat.
Ariadne had left not long after, distinctly uncomfortable with what she could tell was something intimate and private and certainly not for the prying eyes of any outside party. Later, when she finally plucked up enough nerve to mention the incident in question, the only reason Eames gave for his actions was a half-mumbled explanation that included the words poncy point man and habitual bastard.
“Yeah. I do,” Cobb says, quietly.
“Well, it’s misplaced.” And there, right there, despite Eames’ caustic words and snappish tone, Ariadne catches just a hint of something hurt and unguarded there, and she imagines just a brief look of wistfulness flitting across his rugged features, eyebrows pulling in towards each other, cheeks tightening and worrying the scar tissue on his face.
The pause that follows is one that Ariadne often associates with one of Cobb’s infamous squint-eyed staring contests. “It could kill him, Eames.”
Eames’ reply is a truly terrible stab at mockery. “And that’s supposed to matter to me, is it?”
You’re a lying liar who lies, Eames. Ariadne thinks, unable to stop the utterly disdainful curl of her lip, and finds that she doesn’t feel sorry for him when the sound of what is undoubtedly Cobb’s fist making an acquaintance with Eames’ face floats through the door.
“Mal?”
Ariadne starts at the breathless whisper that’s more of a whimper than anything else, and turns just long enough to see Arthur’s dark eyes staring at her, fever-glazed and hazy and unfocused in his face before she reaches out and flings open the door, grabbing the arm of the man standing closest - Cobb, as it turns out; Eames is nursing a busted lip. She all but drags him inside the medical cabin and over to the bedside, where Arthur is making a valiant effort to prop himself up on his elbow, eyes roving wildly around at his surroundings, breathing labored and wheezing painfully in his chest. “...Mal?” His weak voice cracks on that single syllable and he’s still staring at Ariadne in disbelief, stretching out a hand to reach for her. It’s not the wisest course of action, given the flush in his cheeks indicative of fever and the extent of his injuries, and Arthur loses his balance, nearly falling over the side of the narrow cot.
“Arthur!” Cobb moves to break the fall, taking Arthur’s full weight as the younger man slumps limply against him, muscles weak and uncooperative, his shoulder muffling Arthur’s soft cry of pain as the abrupt movements jostle his wounds. “Arthur, take it easy; you’ve got to-”
“Cobb,” Arthur gasps, the word half-garbled and nearly unintelligible as he scrabbles weakly at Cobb’s arms for purchase, lifting his head with effort. “Cobb, I saw...Mal, she...she was here.” His eyes are frenzied, glassy as he swivels his head this way and that, gaze now sliding right over Ariadne as if she’s invisible, looking for someone else, for a ghost from the past, a friend long gone. “Where...?”
“Shh,” Cobb says soothingly, trying to maneuver him back into bed - a difficult task with Arthur clinging to him in earnest and the mess of tubes going in and out of his wrists, connecting to bags of Clonidine and Kemstro and blood - “Listen to me, Arthur, you’re fine now, you’re okay.”
A blatant lie.
“Cobb?” Eames voice is quiet and unsure; he hangs back, loitering hesitantly near the door. “Does he-” He stops short when Arthur turns his head and pins him with a bleary-eyed stare.
“Eames,” Arthur slurs, sounding breathless, eyelashes dark against his clean-shaven cheeks as Cobb gently lays him back down. He murmurs something softly, unintelligible, brow tightening momentarily in pain before it smoothes out in drug-induced sleep once again.
Ariadne watches Eames’ throat work convulsively, catches glimpse of a suspicious glimmer at the corner of his eyes, watches him press those ridiculous lips together tight until they’re a thin, bloodless line. Not much cop, is it, Mr. “And that’s supposed to matter to me”? She thinks spitefully, following the stiff set of the broad shoulders as Eames turns and quickly walks away. This whole ‘not caring’ facade.
* - * - *
Fischer Industries Headquarters is a steel cage of dead ends and cameras mounted high at every corridor, a maze that even the most skilled navigators find themselves getting lost in day in and day out. The floor plans of the main building were drafted up by more than five different architects, construction was a damn nightmare, and despite living (being imprisoned) on the compound for the better part of two years, Robert rarely travels anywhere other than the normal routes from his private quarters to his office, to Uncle Peter’s office and upon rare occasions, the Achieve Room, for fear of wandering around aimlessly for hours until getting found by security and having to explain himself to his godfather.
Even with a highly-detailed, comprehensive map of the layout of the building in hand, it takes Robert more than thirty minutes and four attempts at retracing his steps to find his way to the Central Security Hub (the broom closet that used to serve as Captain Davidson’s office and living quarters sits just a hop, skip, and a jump away down the hall and around the corridor, now empty and cleaned out; the blood once spilled across the floors long ago scrubbed away and bleached out of existence). Once there, after just a little bit of clever maneuvering - Robert is, despite being so easily manipulated by those he once thought of as family, rather keen and quick on his feet - he emerges victorious with an hour by himself and the security recordings of the entire building, a stack of DVDs with footage going back as far as three months.
The Captain is a wraith darting through the hallways of the building, a shadowy figure that flits in and out of the camera frames, always quick and fleeting and lasting for no more than a few seconds in each shot. He’s a sharp black-and-white image that flickers in and out of each frame, walking the corridors of the entire complex like he owns it, never a misstep or wrong turn, each stride measured and steady.
Robert pauses the image and gently presses the his fingers against the screen, the familiar, sharp tug of longing in his chest bubbling up and threatening to choke him, now fiercer and more insistent than ever. He’s immediately annoyed at himself, frustrated that he can’t even maintain a poor veneer of objectivity for five goddamn minutes, angry at his inability to distance himself from what clearly never was and never will be. Quashing down the feeling with grim determination, he taps at the touch screen with perhaps more force than necessary, fast forwarding through thousands of pixelated images (papers scattering all over the hallway and help from an unexpected source, Vivaldi in the middle of the night, a black three-piece suit and a blood red tie, the fleeting brush of a hand against his arm) and stopping the flash of images with another tap of his fingers. Hesitantly, his fingers hover over the screen for a fraction of an instant before descending upon the play button.
Onscreen, he bends carefully over the bed and the Captain reaches up and brings a hand to the back of his neck, pulling him close to whisper a cryptic message in his ear and Robert flushes, his own hand going to the back of his neck. He watches himself dare to lightly brush Captain Davidson’s cheek with the very tips of his fingers, much like the way he touches the screen now, before more or less beating a hasty retreat out of the medical bay, casting a brief glance over his shoulder on the way out.
Less than ten seconds later, the Captain’s eyes open, dark against the stark whiteness of his surroundings. He quickly pulls the IV out of his wrist and slips out of bed, moving out of the camera’s frame with equal swiftness, as sure-footed as a fox.
Inwardly cursing his own incompetence - a quick switch to camera M-418 right outside the medical bay shows the Captain moving in the opposite direction down the very same hallway as the onscreen image of the Fischer heir himself - Robert skims the rest of the disk, then starts turning in a semi-circle to scan through the rest of the footage of the cameras from floor to floor, searching for any sign of him. It’s no easy task; Captain Davidson is careful to avoid being seen, and it’s only by chance, or perhaps sheer dumb luck that Robert remembers.
“Someplace everyone least expects,” he murmurs and searches through the stack of DVDs, snatching up the one that is literally untouched, the disk unscratched, never played.
“What’s the most important component of security?”
Captain Davidson looks thoughtful, tapping a finger lightly against the tabletop - no uniform tonight, no leather gloves - and he doesn’t look at Robert so much as watches him, as if he’s a particularly interesting specimen. “Where do we normally put things that are meant to be secret?”
Robert puts down his fork. “Safes. Strongboxes. Vaults.”
“Exactly. But those are the obvious answers. For maximum security, the safe has to be someplace everyone least expects,” the Captain prompts, steepling his fingers and staring at him intently. “Specificity is important.”
“I...” Robert gazes at the wineglass in front of him, trying to keep from squirming under the scrutiny. The discussion throughout dinner has been on a myriad of topics without so much as an awkward pause, and the Captain has proven himself to be quite the conversationalist, handling the situation with admirable tact. Robert has the distinct feeling that his simple inquiry has somehow given the other man pause. “I’m not sure I get your meaning, Captain.”
“Let’s put it this way: I say to you, don’t think about elephants. What are you thinking about?”
Robert frowns, but can’t help the bemused smile that touches his lips as he answers, truthfully. “...Elephants.”
“Exactly. But that’s not your idea, is it? It’s what everyone thinks about after that leading question.” Captain Davidson sits back. “So if I were to try taking something away from you, where would you hide it if everyone’s thinking of elephants, if everyone expects it to be put under lock and key in the most obscure location possible?”
“...In plain sight,” Robert says in sudden realization. “Some place so common, so pedestrian that it should be the obvious choice.”
“Impressive, Mr. Fischer,” Captain Davidson says with a small nod of approval, a nondescript gesture that nonetheless sends heat rushing immediately to Robert’s cheeks. “You’re a quick study.”
All the while he’d been stumbling over himself at the praise so rarely received, the other man had been trying to tell him something, and Robert wants to kick himself for not seeing it sooner, for not understanding.
After Captain Davidson’s disappearance, half of nearly all of Fischer Industries personnel spent the better part of half a week scouring security footage for a clue as to how the man in question managed to escape from the premises, wounded as he was, and what sensitive information he may or may not have taken and run away with, while the other half spent looking through the confidential archives and destroying all traces of sensitive information. The entire investigation was conducted in the utmost secrecy due to Browning’s attempts to simultaneously salvage his damaged relationship with his godson and to refrain from drawing Robert’s attention to the exact nature of the information Davidson stole.
Not nearly discreet enough, though, for while Robert knows little about the details of what’s being kept from him, what he does know is that his godfather was willing to kill - or hire others to do the dirty work for him, anyway - to keep it under wraps, a secret that now has a name: Project Extraction.
Impatiently, Robert scans through the footage, and makes a small triumphant noise in the back of his throat when Captain Davidson steps into frame - quite deliberately, from the looks of it, dressed in a remarkably undistinguished black ensemble, all the better to remain unseen - and steps up to the door, unlocking the lock with a duplicate key, and slips inside the room.
Ejecting the disk, Robert takes it in hand and turns, running out of the Central Security Hub. Surprisingly, he remembers the way fairly well even without the help of a navigation aid, and remains completely unaware of the shadow following him at a distance, nonchalantly whistling a quiet tune.
- - - - -
Okay, Captain. Robert stands in his living quarters, facing his private vault, the most easily accessible vault in the entire complex, secured only by a simple three-number combination (his late mother’s date of death) spin dial lock. Of course not even Uncle Peter would care to look in someplace so glaringly obvious, so painfully easy. In plain sight, and what would be plainer than something that Robert sees everyday, a secret placed inside his own personal vault? What’ve you put in here for me to find?
The steel door opens easily enough, and Robert carefully takes out the small box filled with Captain Davidson’s personal effects, leaving the interior of the safe bare, save for a small paper pinwheel and - he exhales slowly, a huff of disbelief mingled with a shaky laugh at the sight of the small USB drive tucked away in the furthest corner of the safe, black plastic cover against the shiny grey of steel. Carefully setting the box on the floor, he reaches in and takes the tiny device out, hefting it in the palm of his hand.
He doesn’t have to do this, Robert realizes with a start, and closes his fingers around the memory stick. He can forget all of this, stay ignorant of that which his godfather so desperately wants to keep from him, what everyone else but he seems to know. He can forget ever having heard about Project Extraction and everything the Captain ever said, forget all about the discussion of elephants over dinner and twenty-three stitches, forget all about the man himself.
“Why do you think your father doesn’t want you back?”
Sitting down right there on the carpet, cross-legged like a schoolboy, Robert gently runs the tips of his fingers over the Vivaldi vinyl record, takes a deep breath, and looks over to the laptop sitting over on his desk.
* - * - *
Part 7b