Fic: A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall, 9/10 [Inception]
Title: A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall (9/10)
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, unrequited Robert/Arthur, past Cobb/Mal, hinted Robert/Ariadne, Browning, Saito
Rating: R
Word Count: 8,209
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 door opens and closes with a swift slam, and with a small click, light floods the interior of the dark room.
“Sit down, Mr. Fischer.”
The words put an immediate halt to Robert’s attempts at getting to his feet, and although his numb legs object rather vehemently, he does as ordered, sitting back down again without so much as a word of protest. He blinks several times, pupils contracting and readjusting to the presence of light after spending the better part of the day in the dark of what he can now see is some type of storehouse. Robert knows he must make quite the sight, dragged and deposited here like a pile of garbage or someone else’s problem, although he imagines his appearance should probably be the last of his concerns right now.
The man in front of him has a face that just simply screams con man, right down to the blue eyes, straight Grecian nose, and bee-stung lips, suspicious scar and day-old scruff notwithstanding. He stands in a way that reminds Robert strongly of military rest - straight back, shoulders squared, feet-shoulder width apart - save for the arms crossed over his chest in the very epitome of casual authority; the picture of a man who doesn’t command deference from others, but receives it nonetheless. All this combined with the rather impressive sidearm holstered at his thigh would make for a daunting sight, if not for the way he studies Robert, with neither malice nor kindness, but merely a quiet curiosity, like a somewhat interesting reality show.
“William Eames,” he blurts in recognition, startling both of them with the certainty of his declaration. “You’re the Leader of the Resistance.”
“Bravo,” Eames comments dryly, with an arched brow. “Introductions aside, to what do I owe the dubious honor of your presence in my camp, Mr. Fischer?”
Robert hesitates, unsure of how to answer. “I…I don’t know.” It’s the truth, but he’s all too aware of how idiotic it sounds.
“You don’t know,” Eames repeats slowly, giving him a hard stare. He makes a contemplative noise, eyes roving toward the ceiling, considering. “Strange. I have it on good authority that you’re here because you’ve a very specific agenda in mind.”
“Yeah? Whose authority?”
The other man studies him for a moment longer, then grins. Robert thinks that Eames is a man who might’ve once been inclined to smiling often in order to heighten his charm, but this grin is more devious than genuine, wide as a Cheshire cat’s and downright unsettling. “Can’t figure it out, eh? Should we try stopping his heart again?”
Robert blanches, eyes going wide. “Captain Davidson,” he whispers, horrified, an image of white skin molted purple-black, flushed with fever and disappearing under swaths of bandages flitting into his mind like a bad dream. As his mind pieces the puzzle together, something reaches a hand deep into the pit of his stomach and wrenches out a savagery he didn’t even know he possessed. “You son of a bitch,” he snarls, lunging upwards from the ground and tugging at the rope binding his wrists behind his back. “You son of a BITCH!”
“My mother was a perfectly respectable woman, thank you,” Eames counters smoothly. “Sit down.”
Robert glowers, refusing to wince as blood rushes back to the numbed areas in his legs, and stays standing. He doesn’t want to sit down. “What’ve you done to him?!" Fury surges in his chest now, hot and unforgiving and unlike anything he’s ever felt before, a reckless anger that pushes him to do stupid things, like challenge the man with the gun and about fifty pounds on him.
Eames uncrosses his arms and pulls a thoughtful face. “Well, if you must know, there was a fair bit of electrocution, some skinning, quite a lot of good old-fashioned beating, burning of the hands and feet, even a bit of force-feeding of petrol, if I remember correctly, and - don’t,” he says lazily, gun in hand and pointed straight between Robert’s blazing eyes. “Not unless you’d like another hole in your pretty head, now sit down.”
Faltering at the sight of the gun, Robert steps back until the back of his knees bump against a wooden crate, and he sits, hands curled into fists behind his back. Calm down. Just calm down. His earlier bluster now gone, he takes in a deep breath and wills his heart to stop racing, astounded at the idiocy of what he’d been about to do.
“Now then,” Eames says with a cordial smile that nearly hides the glint of the knife-edge beneath, tucking the gun back into its holster. “Let’s start over, shall we?” He leans back against the wall. “The medicinal supplies, are they supposed to be your olive branch?”
“No,” Robert snaps, now more out of anxiety than anger. “Your medic contacted Fischer Industries USA and asked for them.”
“I beg your pardon?”
It’s the most flustered he’s seen Eames throughout this entire encounter, and Robert feels a spark of triumph for momentarily gaining the upper hand as he stares back into Eames’ scarred face, letting the other man see the lack of untruth in his words. “She mentioned there was a man who was critically injured, and…” Robert’s brow creases even as he speaks, because his mind suddenly conjures up an image of the man standing in front of him and the absolute terror that paralyzed his features as the defibrillator failed to elicit any reaction, the clear desperation that drove Eames’ desperate movements as he attempted CPR, his wrecked voice as he shouted abuse at the Captain’s temporarily lifeless frame. “It wasn’t you who tortured him,” he says in slow, stupid realization.
“Bravo once again, Mr. Fischer.”
“But why did you-”
“Never mind that now.” Eames’ smile is gone, his tone sharp, having lost its pleasantness at Robert’s mention of a medic. “What business do you have with the dear Captain? I assume then it’s his presence that brought you here?”
“I…I didn’t even know he was here.”
“Is that so?” Eames looks decidedly unimpressed. “So, to recap: you stowaway in a truck stocked full of medicinal supplies without knowing why, bound for the camp where your lover lies critically injured, whose presence you claim to know nothing about.”
“My - he’s not my-” Robert sputters, simultaneously outraged at the callous assumption and disgusted at himself for the split-second pang of longing that lances through his chest at the insinuation. “He was Fischer Industries USA’s Head of Security and my-” He hesitates, searching for the right term. “My personal bodyguard.”
“Ah, and it’s common for heirs to multi-billion dollar corporations to come chasing after their security detail, is it?” Eames shrugs one shoulder, up and down, just as nonchalant as can be. “Look here, it’s not a problem if you’d rather stay mum.” He turns, one hand on the doorknob, speaking over his shoulder. “Suppose I’ll simply have to bring it up with the Captain, yeah?”
It’s an empty threat, and Robert knows it, but he’s on his feet before he can stop himself, the taste of bitter panic in the bile at the back of his throat. “No - wait.” He takes a deep breath as the Leader of the Resistance turns around, resigning his fate to the unknown mess of his world, which has been taken and turned up on its head, then shaken helter-skelter all in the past forty-eight hours. “I…I found out about Project Extraction.”
He expects recognition or surprise, but Eames’ brows merely draw in fractionally toward each other. “And that’s supposed to mean something to me?”
Robert stares. “You don’t know-?” This isn’t making sense, none of it. “I thought…Captain Davidson, he - he was passing information about Project Extraction off to the Resistance.”
“I’ve not had a hand in anything Captain Davidson decides to do in his spare time, corporate whistle-blowing or otherwise.” Eames reaches out and drags a chair over from the corner, turns it around backwards, and straddles the seat. “But color me intrigued, Mr. Fischer.” He lays his arms across the back of the chair, pinning Robert with the steely gaze of a soldier. “Tell me about this Project Extraction.”
- - - - -
It’s a good two hours before Eames reemerges from the storehouse, his expression unreadable. When Michelle meets him at the door, he barely spares her a second’s glance.
“I was just about to call in the cavalry if you didn’t show in a bit. The scouts are buzzing; sounds like something’s happened over in one of the refugee camps, and-”
“It can wait.” Eames’ eyes scan the grounds of the camp. “Where’s Cobb?”
“Sitting with the Captain.” Michelle peers into his face. “What the hell happened, Eames?” She glances back toward the storehouse. “How’s Fish Junior?”
“In sparkling form.” Eames purses his lips, like he’s just tasted something sour and half-spoilt. Which is enough to make Michelle startle, because she’s seen him scarf down unrefrigerated, three-day old lemon pie without blinking, for lack of anything else to eat. “And Natasha?”
“She’s with the truck we picked up today, cataloguing stuff and looking things over. Fish Junior brought along stuff for skin grafts; so the burns - what the - Eames!”
She stares after his departing form for a moment, then growls under her breath in frustration, going off to piece together the scouts’ message, hoping against hope for some good news.
- - - - -
Robert jerks awake from the light doze he’d slipped into when the door to the storehouse opens and closes again, this time admitting a short, slender young woman bearing a covered plate, a canteen, and a notebook tucked under one arm. He watches as she sets the objects down on top of a nearby crate, then shrinks back when she reaches into her jeans pocket and withdraws a single bladed penknife. “Um.”
With a roll of her eyes, she flips open the notebook, pulls a pen from her other pocket, and starts to scribble down words on the page with the air of one who has gone through such a process many a time. After a moment, she steps up to him and holds the notebook in front of his face.
I’m not going to hurt you. My name is Ariadne and I can’t talk; don’t ask why. Sit still and don’t move so I can get your hands free.
“Oh. Thank you.” The notebook is plopped down into his lap as Ariadne goes behind him and starts hacking away at the ropes. Robert squirms just a bit at the feel of cold steel - no matter how small the blade - against his skin, and jumps when Ariadne reaches out, unashamedly smacks the side of his head, and then points at the last line written across the page, jabbing at the notebook once for particular emphasis.
Stunned, all Robert can manage is a quiet, rather delayed “ow.” But he does as demanded, muscles tense until the last of the rope falls away. Then he’s rubbing his wrists to get the blood flowing again and eying Ariadne with a certain amount of curiosity as she holds the canteen out to him. “Not trying to poison me, are you?” he asks with a weak smile.
Ariadne shakes her head, swiping her notebook out of Robert’s lap with quick fingers and reaching for her pen again. I don’t kill people. That’s not really my area.
Robert stops with the canteen halfway to his lips, staring at this…girl, really, as she interlaces her fingers together and peers intently over them at him with soul-old eyes, far too haunted and knowing for her youthful features, wondering exactly what her “area” might be. She blinks at him and nods at the canteen, prompting him to go on, and he takes a drink.
Water.
Clearing his throat, Robert sets the canteen down, mentally counting each heartbeat and thanking whichever deity that hasn’t abandoned mankind that he’s still alive. “So…” he fumbles, taking a desperate stab at conversation. “Have you been with the Resistance long, Ariadne?”
Not really. A bit over a month, give or take. She uncovers the plate, revealing what looks like a bit of macaroni and cheese and maybe a slice of deli meat, and offers it to him. Hungry?
He shakes his head with a tight-lipped smile of thanks, and stills the fingers tapping out a nervous staccato on his thigh, folding his hands in his lap instead. “Well, ah…has the Captain been here for long?”
Ariadne frowns for a moment. The message she writes this time, although shorter in length, takes longer to get down on paper, as she stops in between words to glare suspiciously at him through her eyelashes. You mean Arthur, don’t you?
“Arthur. Yes.” And it’s odd, thinking of Captain Davidson in such a manner, because he only know the man in question as a uniformed, black-gloved enigma, steeped in shadow - certainly not beaten to hell, defenseless, and as merely Arthur. “Is he okay?”
And why do you care?
“Why shouldn’t I?”
Ariadne’s eyes narrow, and the words she scribbles down now are fast and sloppy and angry; she tears the piece of paper out and lobs it at his chest. When he opens it, Robert sees that her pen has torn a hole through the page: Because Fischer Industries doesn’t do “care.”
Robert shuts his eyes, his throat closing up with a lump. In the silence that follows, he opens and closes his mouth twice, trying to come up with something to say to that, anything, and failing. “I’m sorry.” They’re laughable and insubstantial, those two flimsy words, and he knows that an apology will never be enough to make amends to the people of the United States, to the Captain (Arthur, he tells himself firmly), to this young woman in front of him now, who is a name and a face for all those who’ve suffered under the hand of Fischer Industries, under Robert’s namesake. But he says it anyway, in a voice that’s quiet and honest and with just a tiny hint of pleading, repeating it for emphasis. “I am so -”
The door flies open once again, this time with so much force that it bangs against the storehouse wall, and Robert’s eyes snap open. A wild-eyed, tall young man stands upon the threshold, out of breath from running, the color high on his cheeks. “You,” he spits like a curse, raising an arm, attached to which is a trembling hand holding a gun, its muzzle pointed straight at Robert’s head.
BANG.
* - * - *
May 26, 2028
In the end, it was a combination of a lot of things that destroyed the Resistance.
July 25th is the date that typically springs to mind when people mention Judgment Day, when the first nukes that heralded the start of World War III were launched, dooming mankind to its fate. Paris was one of the first to burn, if I remember correctly, and I’ll never forget what I felt as I watched the televised images of the Eiffel Tower getting hit, sinking downwards as its steel frame melted and twisted into something unrecognizable, the flames licking up into the sky like a beacon of the times to come. I remember crying at the thought of never being able to visit the City of Lovers.
To me, though, May 19th of this year comes in a pretty close second, as the Resistance had its own Judgment Day
It actually started two days before, when Arthur’s heart stopped. And if that wasn’t dramatic enough, suddenly Robert Fischer himself turns up in Sherwood, and then the shit really hit the fan.
Apparently, Fischer Industries didn’t take too kindly to the thought of their precious heir being “kidnapped” by the enemy - or at least that’s the story - and started moving on the offensive against Resistance, bringing out the big guns, literally. Unfortunately, the first site they invaded and took by force wasn’t Sherwood, but one of the Resistance’s satellite refugee camps, but it’s not like the difference really mattered to Fischer Industries.
Thirty-five dead and ten more in critical condition, was the count the last I heard, and among the casualties, Tommy’s grandparents.
Ariadne stops writing for a moment, her mind involuntarily bringing up the memory of Tommy standing in the storehouse doorway, features twisted by pain and bitterness into an expression that is by no means unfamiliar or unknown in this day and age, but nonetheless one that never fails to make her heart twist in her chest. Tragedy makes strangers out of everyone, it seems, but who knew that Tommy - shy, kind Tommy who stumbles over his words when talking to a pretty girl; sweet, adorable Tommy who smiles in the genuine, carefree way that most everyone else has forgotten how to imitate - would be the first to snap?
It’s a good thing that Tommy’s an awful shot though; or else we’d be less one Fischer in the world. A couple of months ago, I would’ve been all for that possibility, but in light of recent developments…
She lifts her head and cranes her neck, peering into the backseat of the Jeep where the man in question sits listing to the side, head tilted against the window, mouth open slightly and fogging up the glass with his deep, even breaths. He looks slightly uncomfortable like that, dressed in a pair of jeans and a slightly oversized cable-knit sweater dug out from the depths of Sherwood’s communal closet instead of the designer suits he’s certainly more used to wearing, and Ariadne can’t help the smile that curves a corner of her lips. Robert looks entirely out of his natural element, far from the world of office buildings with bulletproof windows and scheming godfathers, sitting with his knees tucked up to his chest and head lolling forward, chestnut hair falling in soft tufts over his forehead, more like an overgrown teddy bear than the runaway heir to Fischer Industries.
“Care to share the joke with the rest of the class, Ari?”
She turns back around in the seat and responding without even thinking. He looks so cuddly, doesn’t he?
Eames chuckles, but the sound is forced, his eyes tight. “If you say so, dove.” His hands tighten on the steering wheel as he peers out into the darkness, the space between his eyebrows creasing into a frown. His scar puckers up even more noticeably when he does that, and Ariadne reaches out, smoothing out the furrow there with her fingers, trying to give him a reassuring smile.
After the news of the attack and Tommy’s attempt to do away with the one he clearly thought was at fault, Eames started sending people away to other satellite camps, deeming it no longer safe in Sherwood, even for the rest of the Resistance. The best course of action, he told everyone, was to split up and start lying low in order to dispel the myth of a cohesive resistance effort, to literally hide until the danger passed - that is, if it would.
We’ve already been on the run for close to a week now, and Fischer Industries USA hasn’t shown any indication of letting up.
- - - - -
“Goddamn it,” Michelle hisses under her breath, slamming on the brakes again for the third time in under fifteen minutes. Eames had insisted on driving without the aid of headlights at night in order to escape detection by the Fischer Industries patrols swarming all over the place, an idea that seems better suited to theory than practice now that both vehicles are crawling along at a snail’s pace of less than twenty-five miles per hour, with Michelle nearly having rear-ended the Jeep twice.
Cobb had proposed traveling on foot, all the better to throw the hounds off their trail by doing the unexpected. Michelle had initially been inclined to agree with him, for who better to give instruction on how to hide from what now essentially equates to the law than Public Enemy Number One, framed or not?
Apparently, though, things are different with one injured ex-Captain and Fish Junior along for the ride.
Cautiously, she chances a glance over her shoulder at Broody and the Captain crouched together in the back of the truck, heads bent together and having what seems to be a heated discussion. Must be time for redressing of wounds and sedation, then. Broody’s got a roll of bandages in hand and when the Captain starts to pull at his shirt with a pained grimace, Michelle averts her eyes and directs her gaze forward again.
Michelle has no problems with the Fischer kid - because that’s exactly what he looks like with his huge damn cow eyes in his baby face - a poor little boy trying to play dress up in Daddy’s big shoes and not realizing they were fucking sinkholes. She knew it from the moment he looked up at her, kneeling there in the dirt in his stupid designer suit - Robert Fischer isn’t a threat, he never was to begin with, and it’s highly unlikely he’ll ever become one. He’s a liability, to be sure (and before the wars she would’ve never labeled anyone as such, but that was then and this is now) but the kid’s probably never even swatted a fly, much less killed another man, and she finds it all too easy to believe that he knew nothing of Fischer Industries’ true dealings.
Captain Arthur Davidson, though - he’s another story. Injured though he may be, Michelle doesn’t trust him because she knows what men like him are capable of doing, because what she sees in those dark eyes sends a shiver up her spine and sets her trigger finger twitching. Even if he used to be a soldier for honor and country, semper fi and all that; even if he used to be a lover (however unbelievable she finds that to be, the way Eames behaves like a damn fool around the man is evidence enough); all Michelle sees when she looks at him is a man that she cannot and will not trust with the life or the love of her friend. She doesn’t trust Arthur Davidson, very much in the same way she didn’t trust Gordon, and while she may never have wanted Eames for a romantic partner, that doesn’t mean she’s going to give him back to the bastard who’s already hurt him once before.
Not unless the Captain shows that he fucking deserves to have Eames back.
- - - - -
Arthur’s a lot better now; evidently, dying for a minute - and thoroughly freaking everyone out in the process - helped to break his fever, and now he’s actually up and moving around on his own. With the medical supplies Robert brought along (some type of cultural epithelial skin graft with collagen and condroitin something or other; it’s all some cutting-edge Fischer Industries biotechnology), a lot of the burns on his hands and soles of his feet are healing up rather nicely, without even so much as a scar left behind. His ribs must still hurt like a bitch, but he never complains even though we’re running low on painkillers - and pretty much everything else, at that.
I wasn’t sure if he’d remember me from so long ago, but the first thing he said to me after the fever broke was to ask if I’d been treated well in the camp he took me to, that I looked in good health, and if ther-
- - - - -
Eames reaches out with one hand to gently catch Ariadne’s head as she cants to the side, eyelashes dark against her cheeks as she falls asleep, pen slipping from her hand to fall to the journal resting open in her lap. With a small, fond smile, he carefully tilts the young woman’s cheek against the passenger seat’s upholstery, marveling for a moment at the size of his hand against her face, at the deceptive fragility in Ariadne’s small frame as she sleeps, hair tumbling over her closed eyes.
Her small stature belies the fierce determination in her, that which Eames had caught a glimpse of the first time he saw her standing in that storehouse, all hidden fire and mulish stubbornness and admirable loyalty that had come to the forefront with stunning force when he’d tried informing her of his intentions to send her away to stay under Ezra’s care.
There had been a proper amount of angry gesticulation and hitting around his head, then she had snapped, Like hell I’m leaving, with all the intensity one could inject into a series of hand gestures. I’m staying with you and the others.
And that had been that.
Perhaps he should have stood firm despite her insistence, Eames muses, with a sideways glance to Ariadne, her features slack in sleep, still so innocent despite all that she’s already witnessed in her years. He’s taking enough of a risk as it is, bringing Michelle along (although in the end, she is one among a dwindling number of those he finds he can trust). It should just be the four fugitives - Cobb, Arthur, Fischer Junior, and himself - making this dangerous, uncharted trip to nowhere. They’re the only ones that really matter to Fischer Industries anyway, and anyone else who might get caught along with them in the very likely event of their capture - and it is very likely - will be shot on the spot. And he would rather give himself up to Fischer Industries; willingly stand in front of their execution squad and die an ugly, inglorious death than see that happen to a wonderful girl like Ariadne.
With Fischer’s divulgence of Project Extraction and the disturbing revelation of the true reach of Maurice Fischer and Peter Browning’s manipulation, it seems that danger is always closer than it appears. Eames is neither fool nor dreamer; those days are far behind him, and he knows full well that a single man does not and cannot plan against an assault from an extremely powerful corporate entity like Fischer Industries. One man against an army is nothing, and a single dream against the crushing force of reality amounts to even less than that. So what a man does, is he packs up everyone and everything the goddamn bastards are after and then runs like bloody hell, and in doing so, effectively saves everyone else Fischer Industries might have gone after in order to get to him. He hides and runs and hides some more, and hopes that he gets far enough away to live for perhaps just a little while longer.
* - * - *
“Sir? We’ve found the tracking device planted in the truck of medical supplies sent to the Resistance.”
“And?”
Anthony doesn’t wince at the harsh tone, but it’s a near thing. He stares at the wrinkle between the other man’s bushy brows, marveling at how the deep furrow looks rather like his grandmother’s garden once the dirt had been turned up, each individual groove so deep one could plant flowers there. “It was found lying in what looked like an abandoned campsite, still activated. The device’s removal seems like an attempt to throw us off their trail.”
Hyacinths had always been Nana’s favorites, he remembers, although it’s been years since anything has bloomed on American soil.
“Oh, you think so?” Mr. Browning sneers, and waves a dismissive hand, a sharp snap of his wrist. “Useless, all of you,” he scoffs. “We have the greatest manpower on this entire continent, the vastest scope of resources, and you sad excuses for military men can’t manage to find a ragtag bunch of fugitives who’ve kidnapped Fischer Industries’ heir?”
The young soldier holds his tongue, thinking it wise not to mention at this point that he’s never gone through basic training and failed gym class in high school.
“They’re on the run,” comes an accented voice, and a beautiful woman slinks out of the shadows behind Mr. Browning’s desk, propping one curvy hip against the corner. She smirks at Anthony, her lips a crimson ribbon twisting upwards in private amusement. “My favorites have always been lilies,” she tells him. “The flowers of death. They’re better for being planted deep into the earth.”
Anthony stares at her, terrified and dumbfounded. “Ma’am?” he stutters, wondering just who the holy hell this woman is, and just what type of freaky telepathic power lies behind her cold blue eyes.
“I don’t care where they’ve run off to,” Mr. Browning says, his voice low, now addressing the woman. “There’s nowhere they can hide where Fischer Industries won’t find them.” He turns to Anthony as the woman wanders over to one of the windows, singing under her breath. “Now bring me back my godson!”
“Paradoxes,” the woman calls out to Anthony apropos of nothing, a dreamy look in her eyes as she turns back to face them. “Life when the world has ended, beauty in despair, love in a time of death.” Her expression turns thoughtful. “Penrose stairs. Arthur was always especially fond of those…”
“Uh…” What else is there to say to the crazy lady? Anthony looks to Mr. Browning for further instruction. “Sir?”
“You have your orders, Sergeant,” the other man says stiffly. “Now I expect-”
“Fond, but apologetic; he always used them far too often, and - why the apology? To me?” The woman interrupts suddenly, and she turns blazing eyes upon the business tycoon, advancing toward him dangerously. “The doctor.” She leans over the desk. “Why did he do that?”
Mr. Browning blinks at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“I woke them up!” It’s a shriek, and the woman reaches out with both hands, swiping papers and files off of the desk, her brown curls awry about her face. Anthony involuntarily takes a step back. “All of them, those who dreamed and damned themselves, like Dom!” She bares her teeth like a predator, but her eyes are wild and hurt, desperate and angry. “Who will wake me?”
“Restrain this woman, Sergeant Durden,” Mr. Browning orders, but Anthony doesn’t care to move a muscle, lest he agitate this woman who is clearly a few sandwiches short of a picnic, who leans over Browning with all the fury of an avenging angel, her every breath a heaving gasp, her fingernails claw-like and digging into the desk.
What he doesn’t recognize is that he’s watching a woman slowly becoming unhinged, a breakdown in the process, the ugly transition - delayed as it is - from the woman once known as Mallorie Cobb into nameless Shade.
* - * - *
May 30, 2028
We’ve stopped in what used to be a library - or at least that’s what I gather from all the random chunks of books and torn pages strewn all over the floor - to rest for a bit. I think everyone needs it. Not only are we running low on supplies, it’s getting colder and no one’s properly clothed for it. God, I can still remember when May used to be shorts and t-shirt weather. Now it’s in the low forties, if that, and I can barely write; my fingers are freezing.
- - - - -
The bombed out library offers little by ways of insulation and heating, and Robert’s teeth chatter as he hugs his knees to his chest, pulling the sleeves of his oversized sweater over his hands and bringing them to his mouth to blow on his freezing fingers, trying to conserve as much heat as possible. His toes curl inside his Italian leather loafers, the only remainder from Fischer Industries and a life that seems like so long ago.
It’s not been an easy transition, going from signing papers, filing out forms ordering more medicines from overseas, or directing shipments of supplies to being on the run. Suddenly, his life now consists of two scant “meals” a day and carefully maintained drinking water rations, of freezing down to his bones every night and sleeping in the back of a Jeep, of driving through boundaries he remembers being marked as safe and contained on the wall-to-wall maps hanging in the conference room of Fischer Industries USA, heading deeper in toward the Periphery every single day with people that, not so very long ago, he considered armed and dangerous fugitives.
Robert’s always been very good at holding his tongue though, so that’s what he does now most of the time, swallowing down any protests or concerns, staying silent until spoken to, all the while wondering why the hell he’s still alive.
“Not turning into a block of ice now, are we?”
He outright jumps a couple of inches into the air as Eames settles down beside him, back to the wall, wearing only a dark short-sleeved t-shirt, tattooed arms bared to the chill of the air. A quick glance a little ways away reveals why; the green cloth bomber jacket Robert had seen him wearing earlier now lies draped around Ariadne’s slim shoulders like a superhero’s cape as the young woman flits around on dainty feet, her brown eyes wide in her face as she eagerly scans the books scattered around on the floor, a smile curving her lips.
Eames doesn’t show the slightest indication of being able to feel the cold at all though, and Robert, not trusting his teeth not to chatter, shakes his head and resists the urge to lean in toward the other man’s solid warmth.
“Feel free to speak if you wish,” Eames says casually, eyes directed toward the vehicles parked in the far corner of the building where Cobb and Michelle (Robert still can’t quite stop thinking of them as “Broody” and “Reyes”; yet another reason why he refrains from talking) are examining something in the back of the truck. “You have questions, yes?”
“Why am I here?” It comes out before Robert can stop himself, and he clenches his fists, holding his breath and waiting for the worst.
“Hmm.” Eames somehow manages to make the wordless remark sound both dangerous and ten syllables longer than it is. He still doesn’t look at Robert, now peering intently at the darkness outside. “Would you rather be back at Fischer Industries?”
There is no hesitation in his answer. “No.” And that’s the god-honest truth, too; Robert would rather be anywhere else than back behind glass walls, living in a fantasy world built upon deception and lies.
“Very good, then. Neither would we, so here we are.” Eames makes a broad sweeping motion with his hand to indicate everyone else in the vicinity, then leans back and puts his hands behind his head. “Look here, Fischer. I’ve no intention to harm you. For one thing, you refused to continue taking part in your father and godfather’s schemes, which means you are neither cruel nor cowardly.” He raises a finger, as if ticking off the reasons as to why Robert still draws breath. “You are rather familiar with the inner workings of your own corporation and with Browning’s thought process, both of which make you a valuable asset.” Another finger. “And furthermore, if you were expecting us lot to be vengeful, murderous barbarians, I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong Resistance.” He pauses. “Or, what remains of the Resistance, that is.”
For a moment, neither of the two men speak; Robert unsure of how best to respond, and Eames seemingly unconcerned with the other’s unease. Eames then gives a low chuckle, raising his eyebrows and nodding toward where Ariadne stands triumphantly holding a huge volume aloft, the wide grin on her face indicating her pleasure at the find. “Besides, dear Ariadne would be most put out should you happen upon an untimely demise.”
“Why’s that?”
“It seems she’s appointed herself your personal guardian, of sorts.”
Robert’s jaw falls slack, just a little, because that’s…well. “I’m…I’m not sure I’ve given her a reason to…to…” His eyes dart back to Ariadne, who now sits on the floor, leaning against a block of concrete and leafing though the book; a young woman of slight stature and eyes that have seen too much, someone who owes him nothing and by all means, should hate him, but somehow doesn’t. It suddenly strikes him that she is very much like Captain Davidson in that aspect - fiercely loyal without apparent cause, and with a quiet strength far greater than appearances would suggest.
He hasn’t seen much of the Captain, as of late, and beyond a simple nod and a couple of seconds of eye contact here and there, he hasn’t had much of an opportunity to interact with the other man at all. Most of the time, Robert travels with Eames (all the better for the other man to keep an eye on him), and Arthur with Cobb (who glares at Robert with very thinly disguised mistrust, all dangerous intent and accusing eyes).
Sometimes Robert wants to shout that it wasn’t he who hurt the Captain, but he quickly bites down on the stupid urge, reminding himself that the only reason he’s still alive is due to the surprising kindness of those he formerly identified as the enemy.
“Well, given your namesake, I’m certain there’s not much you had to do in order to make a good impression.” Eames gives Robert a sideways glance. “So unless you give her a reason not to trust you, I gather Ariadne is willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.”
“Why?”
Eames barks out a laugh, short and bitter. “Why do people do anything?” he mutters, then inclines his head toward Ariadne. “Go on.”
“Sorry?”
“Well, if you fancy her, the first step would be to go and have a proper chat, yeah?”
Robert ducks his head, cheeks burning. “Right,” he mumbles, getting to his feet. “Excuse me.”
- - - - -
Eames shakes his head as he watches the Fischer boy stumble over to Ariadne, chuckling at the boy’s blind faith, which is by far the kindest word for ignorance. He’d asked why with all the guileless wonder of a child, both insistent and expectant of a straightforward answer that would never come.
Why do people do anything?
He thinks of Natasha and what she’d done in contacting Fischer Industries USA, wondering if she was telling the truth when she protested that she only meant well. It would make sense; as a physician, Natasha’s first thought always goes to human welfare and her first priority, the standard of living of those she saw to - and besides, Eames has never known her to be a cruel or conniving woman - but things can and do change, for the better or worse.
People change.
Eames tilts his head back, feeling the chill settle down into his bones, thinking of Natasha and medical supplies, of Michelle with her quick smile and fierce loyalty, of Cobb and the band he still wears that ties him to a dead woman. He thinks of Fischer’s earnestness to atone for his father’s sins, of finding Gordon a dark, changed, dangerous man after the advent of the Second Civil War. He glances over to see Ariadne pat the ground beside her in invitation and Fischer’s less than graceful attempt at taking a seat, and a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. Inwardly, he marvels at what kindness Ariadne possesses, what depths of forgiveness she is capable of, despite everything she’d personally suffered under the reign of Fischer Industries, despite living in a world where such mercy seems like nothing more than a show of weakness, a memory from a bygone era.
She is undoubtedly the strongest of all of them because of it, bless her.
Eames forgives you; I’m sure he really does, she had told Natasha sincerely before Eames sent the physician off with the others, but he just can’t trust you anymore.
Dear Ariadne. Eames closes his eyes and sits there, listening to Fischer’s quiet, hesitant attempts at making conversation with Ariadne, to the crackle of the fire Michelle’s started, and as he slips into sleep, he dreams of running and running with no place to hide, of waking up from this nightmare of a reality, of Fischer Industries and the Captain that he doesn’t know how to forgive.
* - * - *
June 3, 2028
Sometimes I wonder if I’m even dating this thing correctly. Kinda hard to keep track of the passing days when there’s no way of keeping track of time. Eames’ pocket watch stopped working yesterday, and since I haven’t been counting the minutes and the hours, I can only hazard a rough estimate as to what to date each entry. Guess it really doesn’t matter, as long as we’re still alive.
It’s been raining nonstop for a while now, and that’s always cheery, isn’t it? God, if it would just let up for an hour or two. The cars have been driving just fine, but Arthur mentioned something about the possibility of the tires getting stuck in the mud if the rain keeps up. I have a feeling that, if that happens, he’s going to be the first one to volunteer to dig them out. The idiot really doesn’t know when or how to take it easy.
His arm is bothering him again, I can tell. He can barely move it above his waist, but he refuses to be dosed with morphine or to take any painkillers, and I swear he never sleeps. Cobb said something about Arthur being an insomniac, but he has to sleep at least some of the time, right?
Every time I try to bring it up with him, he looks surprised that I’d ask about his health, that I’d even care. It really makes me want to cry. No one should ever wear that look, like being treated with even the smallest bit of kindness is something completely new and unheard of. Least of all, Arthur. Not after everything he’s already done for the Resistance, for Robert, for Cobb.
And for Eames.
- - - - -
“Is Captain Davidson - I mean, Arthur, is he…is he going to be alright?”
If Fish Junior’s blue eyes get any bigger, they’re going to fall out of his damn head. Michelle gallantly resists the urge to roll her eyes, although she too had been a bit shocked when earlier that evening, apropos of nothing, Broody had walked up behind the Captain and casually stuck a hypodermic needle into his neck. “He’ll be fine. Don’t get your knickers into a twist.” She crosses her arms. “I’m pretty sure Broody’s sitting up with him right now, so unless you want to go crash that party…”
She watches him falter at that, and refrains from shaking her head. Cobb should really let up on the kid; just the very mention of the former extractor looks like enough to make poor Fish Junior wet his pants. Broody has somehow gotten it into his head that the only reason Gordon went all Guantanamo Bay on the Captain is because Arthur had been working for Robert Fischer, never mind the fact that Gordon was a sadistic son of a bitch who didn’t need a reason to torture anyone.
Scapegoat, thy unfortunate name is Fish Junior.
“Look,” Michelle sighs, jamming a fist into her hip and raking her fingers through her hair. It’s not her job to coddle Fish Junior (especially since it seems like Shorty’s got that all covered), but she’s starting to get a soft spot for the kid, just like she has for Shorty, and that never bodes well. Damn baby blue eyes, she thinks. “I’ll go check up on him, alright?”
- - - - -
“That water’s supposed to be for drinking,” Arthur mutters groggily, words slurring slightly, eyelids too heavy to lift and limbs too leaden to raise in protest as he registers the feel of someone carefully wiping at the mud smudged up along his bared torso from when he’d fallen to the ground after Cobb’s sneak attack with the syringe. The morphine is definitely helping to ward off the pain, but really not doing much for Arthur’s depth perception or coherency.
The person continues the gentle ministrations without comment and Arthur’s brow creases ever so slightly as he realizes that the hands passing the damp washcloth over the mud, skating up lightly along his newly healed ribs and hesitating ever so slightly over scars both new and old, can’t possibly belong to Ariadne, as he previously thought. They’re too large, for one, with a square palm and calloused fingertips, and the trail they map out over his skin is far too familiar. “Cobb?” he asks hesitantly, stumbling over the name because it has too many damn letters for his heavy tongue to handle right now.
The hands still briefly, a near imperceptible pause, but Arthur’s always been one for seemingly insignificant details. “Not quite.”
Arthur’s breath stutters as he’s pulled forward into an embrace, leaning against the broad chest and cheek coming to rest on a strong shoulder as the other gently maneuvers his uncooperative limbs into his shirt. He waits for a count of three before he dares to open his eyes, peering out blearily through the fringe of his lashes. “Eames,” he breathes.
Eames’ face is half-shadowed in the scant light provided by their only battery-powered lantern, the raised ridge of the scar spanning his face and only narrowly missing one blue eye made all the more evident with the stark contrast. Arthur is suddenly overcome with the urge to find whoever dared to make that scar and rip his or her throat out with his bare hands. Eames’ face has always been the brightest thing in Arthur’s memory and he leans forward, wanting to chase the sun into the corners of that mouth, drawn toward this man who owns so much of him and doesn’t even know it -
“No.”
Arthur blinks. What?
Eames holds his gaze, blue eyes unwavering - there are exactly eleven flecks of silver in them - and he gently pushes Arthur back to lean against the side of the truck. “No,” he repeats quietly, as if Arthur didn’t hear it the first time and doesn’t feel the word working its way into his chest like a shard of glass. “Kindly release me, Arthur.”
Speechless, Arthur looks down and sees that his fingers have somehow tangled themselves in the folds of Eames’ shirt without his knowledge, and when he remains frozen, Eames reaches down, gently pulls them away, and stands. “Try to get some sleep, yeah?” he says softly, then turns without hesitation or fanfare, and walks away.
Arthur hasn’t had a full, comfortable night’s sleep since Cabo, and he wants to tell Eames this. He wants to tell the other man that he’s spent every single night since then thinking of him, that he only went to work for Fischer Industries to keep Cobb and the Resistance - and by extension, Eames - safe, that he was never a traitor, not really, that everything he’s done up until this point has been to get him back to Eames, so come back, please, damn it, come back.
- - - - -
His face is hidden in his hands, his shoulders shaking; each silent sob tears its way through his entire frame, and Michelle can’t do anything but stand there and stare.
On her way over to the truck to check up on the Captain per Fish Junior’s timid unspoken request, she’d caught sight of Eames heading out, his shoulders stiff and his face pinched, tight-lipped and eyes shuttered, and she’d only been all too ready to give that arrogant ass of a Captain a piece of her mind (and her fist) when she rounded the corner and found him like…like this.
And, strangely enough, this sight does more to convince her of the Captain’s character than all of his explanations about passing information off to Saito something or other in an attempt to bring down Fischer Industries USA, or his claims of trying to help the Resistance by means of rerouting supplies and lookout points, however true such assertions may be.
Suddenly now, he’s no longer a Captain, a traitor, or some point man extraordinaire - he’s a flesh and blood man who has been tortured and survived by sheer will, who dared to play both traitor and hero with equal ease and resolution, keeping up the charade so well that even those closest to him had been fooled, who is now broken in a way that has nothing to do with physical wounds, who is capable of shedding tears and feeling loneliness and heartache, and hurt. And Michelle knows this type of hurt, the kind that digs its claws deep into your chest and rips a gaping hole where your heart ought to be, the kind that wrenches each sob out of you until you’re gasping for air, the kind that means you’ve lost the one you love the most and he isn’t coming back, not ever.
* - * - *
Part 10
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, unrequited Robert/Arthur, past Cobb/Mal, hinted Robert/Ariadne, Browning, Saito
Rating: R
Word Count: 8,209
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 door opens and closes with a swift slam, and with a small click, light floods the interior of the dark room.
“Sit down, Mr. Fischer.”
The words put an immediate halt to Robert’s attempts at getting to his feet, and although his numb legs object rather vehemently, he does as ordered, sitting back down again without so much as a word of protest. He blinks several times, pupils contracting and readjusting to the presence of light after spending the better part of the day in the dark of what he can now see is some type of storehouse. Robert knows he must make quite the sight, dragged and deposited here like a pile of garbage or someone else’s problem, although he imagines his appearance should probably be the last of his concerns right now.
The man in front of him has a face that just simply screams con man, right down to the blue eyes, straight Grecian nose, and bee-stung lips, suspicious scar and day-old scruff notwithstanding. He stands in a way that reminds Robert strongly of military rest - straight back, shoulders squared, feet-shoulder width apart - save for the arms crossed over his chest in the very epitome of casual authority; the picture of a man who doesn’t command deference from others, but receives it nonetheless. All this combined with the rather impressive sidearm holstered at his thigh would make for a daunting sight, if not for the way he studies Robert, with neither malice nor kindness, but merely a quiet curiosity, like a somewhat interesting reality show.
“William Eames,” he blurts in recognition, startling both of them with the certainty of his declaration. “You’re the Leader of the Resistance.”
“Bravo,” Eames comments dryly, with an arched brow. “Introductions aside, to what do I owe the dubious honor of your presence in my camp, Mr. Fischer?”
Robert hesitates, unsure of how to answer. “I…I don’t know.” It’s the truth, but he’s all too aware of how idiotic it sounds.
“You don’t know,” Eames repeats slowly, giving him a hard stare. He makes a contemplative noise, eyes roving toward the ceiling, considering. “Strange. I have it on good authority that you’re here because you’ve a very specific agenda in mind.”
“Yeah? Whose authority?”
The other man studies him for a moment longer, then grins. Robert thinks that Eames is a man who might’ve once been inclined to smiling often in order to heighten his charm, but this grin is more devious than genuine, wide as a Cheshire cat’s and downright unsettling. “Can’t figure it out, eh? Should we try stopping his heart again?”
Robert blanches, eyes going wide. “Captain Davidson,” he whispers, horrified, an image of white skin molted purple-black, flushed with fever and disappearing under swaths of bandages flitting into his mind like a bad dream. As his mind pieces the puzzle together, something reaches a hand deep into the pit of his stomach and wrenches out a savagery he didn’t even know he possessed. “You son of a bitch,” he snarls, lunging upwards from the ground and tugging at the rope binding his wrists behind his back. “You son of a BITCH!”
“My mother was a perfectly respectable woman, thank you,” Eames counters smoothly. “Sit down.”
Robert glowers, refusing to wince as blood rushes back to the numbed areas in his legs, and stays standing. He doesn’t want to sit down. “What’ve you done to him?!" Fury surges in his chest now, hot and unforgiving and unlike anything he’s ever felt before, a reckless anger that pushes him to do stupid things, like challenge the man with the gun and about fifty pounds on him.
Eames uncrosses his arms and pulls a thoughtful face. “Well, if you must know, there was a fair bit of electrocution, some skinning, quite a lot of good old-fashioned beating, burning of the hands and feet, even a bit of force-feeding of petrol, if I remember correctly, and - don’t,” he says lazily, gun in hand and pointed straight between Robert’s blazing eyes. “Not unless you’d like another hole in your pretty head, now sit down.”
Faltering at the sight of the gun, Robert steps back until the back of his knees bump against a wooden crate, and he sits, hands curled into fists behind his back. Calm down. Just calm down. His earlier bluster now gone, he takes in a deep breath and wills his heart to stop racing, astounded at the idiocy of what he’d been about to do.
“Now then,” Eames says with a cordial smile that nearly hides the glint of the knife-edge beneath, tucking the gun back into its holster. “Let’s start over, shall we?” He leans back against the wall. “The medicinal supplies, are they supposed to be your olive branch?”
“No,” Robert snaps, now more out of anxiety than anger. “Your medic contacted Fischer Industries USA and asked for them.”
“I beg your pardon?”
It’s the most flustered he’s seen Eames throughout this entire encounter, and Robert feels a spark of triumph for momentarily gaining the upper hand as he stares back into Eames’ scarred face, letting the other man see the lack of untruth in his words. “She mentioned there was a man who was critically injured, and…” Robert’s brow creases even as he speaks, because his mind suddenly conjures up an image of the man standing in front of him and the absolute terror that paralyzed his features as the defibrillator failed to elicit any reaction, the clear desperation that drove Eames’ desperate movements as he attempted CPR, his wrecked voice as he shouted abuse at the Captain’s temporarily lifeless frame. “It wasn’t you who tortured him,” he says in slow, stupid realization.
“Bravo once again, Mr. Fischer.”
“But why did you-”
“Never mind that now.” Eames’ smile is gone, his tone sharp, having lost its pleasantness at Robert’s mention of a medic. “What business do you have with the dear Captain? I assume then it’s his presence that brought you here?”
“I…I didn’t even know he was here.”
“Is that so?” Eames looks decidedly unimpressed. “So, to recap: you stowaway in a truck stocked full of medicinal supplies without knowing why, bound for the camp where your lover lies critically injured, whose presence you claim to know nothing about.”
“My - he’s not my-” Robert sputters, simultaneously outraged at the callous assumption and disgusted at himself for the split-second pang of longing that lances through his chest at the insinuation. “He was Fischer Industries USA’s Head of Security and my-” He hesitates, searching for the right term. “My personal bodyguard.”
“Ah, and it’s common for heirs to multi-billion dollar corporations to come chasing after their security detail, is it?” Eames shrugs one shoulder, up and down, just as nonchalant as can be. “Look here, it’s not a problem if you’d rather stay mum.” He turns, one hand on the doorknob, speaking over his shoulder. “Suppose I’ll simply have to bring it up with the Captain, yeah?”
It’s an empty threat, and Robert knows it, but he’s on his feet before he can stop himself, the taste of bitter panic in the bile at the back of his throat. “No - wait.” He takes a deep breath as the Leader of the Resistance turns around, resigning his fate to the unknown mess of his world, which has been taken and turned up on its head, then shaken helter-skelter all in the past forty-eight hours. “I…I found out about Project Extraction.”
He expects recognition or surprise, but Eames’ brows merely draw in fractionally toward each other. “And that’s supposed to mean something to me?”
Robert stares. “You don’t know-?” This isn’t making sense, none of it. “I thought…Captain Davidson, he - he was passing information about Project Extraction off to the Resistance.”
“I’ve not had a hand in anything Captain Davidson decides to do in his spare time, corporate whistle-blowing or otherwise.” Eames reaches out and drags a chair over from the corner, turns it around backwards, and straddles the seat. “But color me intrigued, Mr. Fischer.” He lays his arms across the back of the chair, pinning Robert with the steely gaze of a soldier. “Tell me about this Project Extraction.”
- - - - -
It’s a good two hours before Eames reemerges from the storehouse, his expression unreadable. When Michelle meets him at the door, he barely spares her a second’s glance.
“I was just about to call in the cavalry if you didn’t show in a bit. The scouts are buzzing; sounds like something’s happened over in one of the refugee camps, and-”
“It can wait.” Eames’ eyes scan the grounds of the camp. “Where’s Cobb?”
“Sitting with the Captain.” Michelle peers into his face. “What the hell happened, Eames?” She glances back toward the storehouse. “How’s Fish Junior?”
“In sparkling form.” Eames purses his lips, like he’s just tasted something sour and half-spoilt. Which is enough to make Michelle startle, because she’s seen him scarf down unrefrigerated, three-day old lemon pie without blinking, for lack of anything else to eat. “And Natasha?”
“She’s with the truck we picked up today, cataloguing stuff and looking things over. Fish Junior brought along stuff for skin grafts; so the burns - what the - Eames!”
She stares after his departing form for a moment, then growls under her breath in frustration, going off to piece together the scouts’ message, hoping against hope for some good news.
- - - - -
Robert jerks awake from the light doze he’d slipped into when the door to the storehouse opens and closes again, this time admitting a short, slender young woman bearing a covered plate, a canteen, and a notebook tucked under one arm. He watches as she sets the objects down on top of a nearby crate, then shrinks back when she reaches into her jeans pocket and withdraws a single bladed penknife. “Um.”
With a roll of her eyes, she flips open the notebook, pulls a pen from her other pocket, and starts to scribble down words on the page with the air of one who has gone through such a process many a time. After a moment, she steps up to him and holds the notebook in front of his face.
I’m not going to hurt you. My name is Ariadne and I can’t talk; don’t ask why. Sit still and don’t move so I can get your hands free.
“Oh. Thank you.” The notebook is plopped down into his lap as Ariadne goes behind him and starts hacking away at the ropes. Robert squirms just a bit at the feel of cold steel - no matter how small the blade - against his skin, and jumps when Ariadne reaches out, unashamedly smacks the side of his head, and then points at the last line written across the page, jabbing at the notebook once for particular emphasis.
Stunned, all Robert can manage is a quiet, rather delayed “ow.” But he does as demanded, muscles tense until the last of the rope falls away. Then he’s rubbing his wrists to get the blood flowing again and eying Ariadne with a certain amount of curiosity as she holds the canteen out to him. “Not trying to poison me, are you?” he asks with a weak smile.
Ariadne shakes her head, swiping her notebook out of Robert’s lap with quick fingers and reaching for her pen again. I don’t kill people. That’s not really my area.
Robert stops with the canteen halfway to his lips, staring at this…girl, really, as she interlaces her fingers together and peers intently over them at him with soul-old eyes, far too haunted and knowing for her youthful features, wondering exactly what her “area” might be. She blinks at him and nods at the canteen, prompting him to go on, and he takes a drink.
Water.
Clearing his throat, Robert sets the canteen down, mentally counting each heartbeat and thanking whichever deity that hasn’t abandoned mankind that he’s still alive. “So…” he fumbles, taking a desperate stab at conversation. “Have you been with the Resistance long, Ariadne?”
Not really. A bit over a month, give or take. She uncovers the plate, revealing what looks like a bit of macaroni and cheese and maybe a slice of deli meat, and offers it to him. Hungry?
He shakes his head with a tight-lipped smile of thanks, and stills the fingers tapping out a nervous staccato on his thigh, folding his hands in his lap instead. “Well, ah…has the Captain been here for long?”
Ariadne frowns for a moment. The message she writes this time, although shorter in length, takes longer to get down on paper, as she stops in between words to glare suspiciously at him through her eyelashes. You mean Arthur, don’t you?
“Arthur. Yes.” And it’s odd, thinking of Captain Davidson in such a manner, because he only know the man in question as a uniformed, black-gloved enigma, steeped in shadow - certainly not beaten to hell, defenseless, and as merely Arthur. “Is he okay?”
And why do you care?
“Why shouldn’t I?”
Ariadne’s eyes narrow, and the words she scribbles down now are fast and sloppy and angry; she tears the piece of paper out and lobs it at his chest. When he opens it, Robert sees that her pen has torn a hole through the page: Because Fischer Industries doesn’t do “care.”
Robert shuts his eyes, his throat closing up with a lump. In the silence that follows, he opens and closes his mouth twice, trying to come up with something to say to that, anything, and failing. “I’m sorry.” They’re laughable and insubstantial, those two flimsy words, and he knows that an apology will never be enough to make amends to the people of the United States, to the Captain (Arthur, he tells himself firmly), to this young woman in front of him now, who is a name and a face for all those who’ve suffered under the hand of Fischer Industries, under Robert’s namesake. But he says it anyway, in a voice that’s quiet and honest and with just a tiny hint of pleading, repeating it for emphasis. “I am so -”
The door flies open once again, this time with so much force that it bangs against the storehouse wall, and Robert’s eyes snap open. A wild-eyed, tall young man stands upon the threshold, out of breath from running, the color high on his cheeks. “You,” he spits like a curse, raising an arm, attached to which is a trembling hand holding a gun, its muzzle pointed straight at Robert’s head.
BANG.
* - * - *
May 26, 2028
In the end, it was a combination of a lot of things that destroyed the Resistance.
July 25th is the date that typically springs to mind when people mention Judgment Day, when the first nukes that heralded the start of World War III were launched, dooming mankind to its fate. Paris was one of the first to burn, if I remember correctly, and I’ll never forget what I felt as I watched the televised images of the Eiffel Tower getting hit, sinking downwards as its steel frame melted and twisted into something unrecognizable, the flames licking up into the sky like a beacon of the times to come. I remember crying at the thought of never being able to visit the City of Lovers.
To me, though, May 19th of this year comes in a pretty close second, as the Resistance had its own Judgment Day
It actually started two days before, when Arthur’s heart stopped. And if that wasn’t dramatic enough, suddenly Robert Fischer himself turns up in Sherwood, and then the shit really hit the fan.
Apparently, Fischer Industries didn’t take too kindly to the thought of their precious heir being “kidnapped” by the enemy - or at least that’s the story - and started moving on the offensive against Resistance, bringing out the big guns, literally. Unfortunately, the first site they invaded and took by force wasn’t Sherwood, but one of the Resistance’s satellite refugee camps, but it’s not like the difference really mattered to Fischer Industries.
Thirty-five dead and ten more in critical condition, was the count the last I heard, and among the casualties, Tommy’s grandparents.
Ariadne stops writing for a moment, her mind involuntarily bringing up the memory of Tommy standing in the storehouse doorway, features twisted by pain and bitterness into an expression that is by no means unfamiliar or unknown in this day and age, but nonetheless one that never fails to make her heart twist in her chest. Tragedy makes strangers out of everyone, it seems, but who knew that Tommy - shy, kind Tommy who stumbles over his words when talking to a pretty girl; sweet, adorable Tommy who smiles in the genuine, carefree way that most everyone else has forgotten how to imitate - would be the first to snap?
It’s a good thing that Tommy’s an awful shot though; or else we’d be less one Fischer in the world. A couple of months ago, I would’ve been all for that possibility, but in light of recent developments…
She lifts her head and cranes her neck, peering into the backseat of the Jeep where the man in question sits listing to the side, head tilted against the window, mouth open slightly and fogging up the glass with his deep, even breaths. He looks slightly uncomfortable like that, dressed in a pair of jeans and a slightly oversized cable-knit sweater dug out from the depths of Sherwood’s communal closet instead of the designer suits he’s certainly more used to wearing, and Ariadne can’t help the smile that curves a corner of her lips. Robert looks entirely out of his natural element, far from the world of office buildings with bulletproof windows and scheming godfathers, sitting with his knees tucked up to his chest and head lolling forward, chestnut hair falling in soft tufts over his forehead, more like an overgrown teddy bear than the runaway heir to Fischer Industries.
“Care to share the joke with the rest of the class, Ari?”
She turns back around in the seat and responding without even thinking. He looks so cuddly, doesn’t he?
Eames chuckles, but the sound is forced, his eyes tight. “If you say so, dove.” His hands tighten on the steering wheel as he peers out into the darkness, the space between his eyebrows creasing into a frown. His scar puckers up even more noticeably when he does that, and Ariadne reaches out, smoothing out the furrow there with her fingers, trying to give him a reassuring smile.
After the news of the attack and Tommy’s attempt to do away with the one he clearly thought was at fault, Eames started sending people away to other satellite camps, deeming it no longer safe in Sherwood, even for the rest of the Resistance. The best course of action, he told everyone, was to split up and start lying low in order to dispel the myth of a cohesive resistance effort, to literally hide until the danger passed - that is, if it would.
We’ve already been on the run for close to a week now, and Fischer Industries USA hasn’t shown any indication of letting up.
- - - - -
“Goddamn it,” Michelle hisses under her breath, slamming on the brakes again for the third time in under fifteen minutes. Eames had insisted on driving without the aid of headlights at night in order to escape detection by the Fischer Industries patrols swarming all over the place, an idea that seems better suited to theory than practice now that both vehicles are crawling along at a snail’s pace of less than twenty-five miles per hour, with Michelle nearly having rear-ended the Jeep twice.
Cobb had proposed traveling on foot, all the better to throw the hounds off their trail by doing the unexpected. Michelle had initially been inclined to agree with him, for who better to give instruction on how to hide from what now essentially equates to the law than Public Enemy Number One, framed or not?
Apparently, though, things are different with one injured ex-Captain and Fish Junior along for the ride.
Cautiously, she chances a glance over her shoulder at Broody and the Captain crouched together in the back of the truck, heads bent together and having what seems to be a heated discussion. Must be time for redressing of wounds and sedation, then. Broody’s got a roll of bandages in hand and when the Captain starts to pull at his shirt with a pained grimace, Michelle averts her eyes and directs her gaze forward again.
Michelle has no problems with the Fischer kid - because that’s exactly what he looks like with his huge damn cow eyes in his baby face - a poor little boy trying to play dress up in Daddy’s big shoes and not realizing they were fucking sinkholes. She knew it from the moment he looked up at her, kneeling there in the dirt in his stupid designer suit - Robert Fischer isn’t a threat, he never was to begin with, and it’s highly unlikely he’ll ever become one. He’s a liability, to be sure (and before the wars she would’ve never labeled anyone as such, but that was then and this is now) but the kid’s probably never even swatted a fly, much less killed another man, and she finds it all too easy to believe that he knew nothing of Fischer Industries’ true dealings.
Captain Arthur Davidson, though - he’s another story. Injured though he may be, Michelle doesn’t trust him because she knows what men like him are capable of doing, because what she sees in those dark eyes sends a shiver up her spine and sets her trigger finger twitching. Even if he used to be a soldier for honor and country, semper fi and all that; even if he used to be a lover (however unbelievable she finds that to be, the way Eames behaves like a damn fool around the man is evidence enough); all Michelle sees when she looks at him is a man that she cannot and will not trust with the life or the love of her friend. She doesn’t trust Arthur Davidson, very much in the same way she didn’t trust Gordon, and while she may never have wanted Eames for a romantic partner, that doesn’t mean she’s going to give him back to the bastard who’s already hurt him once before.
Not unless the Captain shows that he fucking deserves to have Eames back.
- - - - -
Arthur’s a lot better now; evidently, dying for a minute - and thoroughly freaking everyone out in the process - helped to break his fever, and now he’s actually up and moving around on his own. With the medical supplies Robert brought along (some type of cultural epithelial skin graft with collagen and condroitin something or other; it’s all some cutting-edge Fischer Industries biotechnology), a lot of the burns on his hands and soles of his feet are healing up rather nicely, without even so much as a scar left behind. His ribs must still hurt like a bitch, but he never complains even though we’re running low on painkillers - and pretty much everything else, at that.
I wasn’t sure if he’d remember me from so long ago, but the first thing he said to me after the fever broke was to ask if I’d been treated well in the camp he took me to, that I looked in good health, and if ther-
- - - - -
Eames reaches out with one hand to gently catch Ariadne’s head as she cants to the side, eyelashes dark against her cheeks as she falls asleep, pen slipping from her hand to fall to the journal resting open in her lap. With a small, fond smile, he carefully tilts the young woman’s cheek against the passenger seat’s upholstery, marveling for a moment at the size of his hand against her face, at the deceptive fragility in Ariadne’s small frame as she sleeps, hair tumbling over her closed eyes.
Her small stature belies the fierce determination in her, that which Eames had caught a glimpse of the first time he saw her standing in that storehouse, all hidden fire and mulish stubbornness and admirable loyalty that had come to the forefront with stunning force when he’d tried informing her of his intentions to send her away to stay under Ezra’s care.
There had been a proper amount of angry gesticulation and hitting around his head, then she had snapped, Like hell I’m leaving, with all the intensity one could inject into a series of hand gestures. I’m staying with you and the others.
And that had been that.
Perhaps he should have stood firm despite her insistence, Eames muses, with a sideways glance to Ariadne, her features slack in sleep, still so innocent despite all that she’s already witnessed in her years. He’s taking enough of a risk as it is, bringing Michelle along (although in the end, she is one among a dwindling number of those he finds he can trust). It should just be the four fugitives - Cobb, Arthur, Fischer Junior, and himself - making this dangerous, uncharted trip to nowhere. They’re the only ones that really matter to Fischer Industries anyway, and anyone else who might get caught along with them in the very likely event of their capture - and it is very likely - will be shot on the spot. And he would rather give himself up to Fischer Industries; willingly stand in front of their execution squad and die an ugly, inglorious death than see that happen to a wonderful girl like Ariadne.
With Fischer’s divulgence of Project Extraction and the disturbing revelation of the true reach of Maurice Fischer and Peter Browning’s manipulation, it seems that danger is always closer than it appears. Eames is neither fool nor dreamer; those days are far behind him, and he knows full well that a single man does not and cannot plan against an assault from an extremely powerful corporate entity like Fischer Industries. One man against an army is nothing, and a single dream against the crushing force of reality amounts to even less than that. So what a man does, is he packs up everyone and everything the goddamn bastards are after and then runs like bloody hell, and in doing so, effectively saves everyone else Fischer Industries might have gone after in order to get to him. He hides and runs and hides some more, and hopes that he gets far enough away to live for perhaps just a little while longer.
* - * - *
“Sir? We’ve found the tracking device planted in the truck of medical supplies sent to the Resistance.”
“And?”
Anthony doesn’t wince at the harsh tone, but it’s a near thing. He stares at the wrinkle between the other man’s bushy brows, marveling at how the deep furrow looks rather like his grandmother’s garden once the dirt had been turned up, each individual groove so deep one could plant flowers there. “It was found lying in what looked like an abandoned campsite, still activated. The device’s removal seems like an attempt to throw us off their trail.”
Hyacinths had always been Nana’s favorites, he remembers, although it’s been years since anything has bloomed on American soil.
“Oh, you think so?” Mr. Browning sneers, and waves a dismissive hand, a sharp snap of his wrist. “Useless, all of you,” he scoffs. “We have the greatest manpower on this entire continent, the vastest scope of resources, and you sad excuses for military men can’t manage to find a ragtag bunch of fugitives who’ve kidnapped Fischer Industries’ heir?”
The young soldier holds his tongue, thinking it wise not to mention at this point that he’s never gone through basic training and failed gym class in high school.
“They’re on the run,” comes an accented voice, and a beautiful woman slinks out of the shadows behind Mr. Browning’s desk, propping one curvy hip against the corner. She smirks at Anthony, her lips a crimson ribbon twisting upwards in private amusement. “My favorites have always been lilies,” she tells him. “The flowers of death. They’re better for being planted deep into the earth.”
Anthony stares at her, terrified and dumbfounded. “Ma’am?” he stutters, wondering just who the holy hell this woman is, and just what type of freaky telepathic power lies behind her cold blue eyes.
“I don’t care where they’ve run off to,” Mr. Browning says, his voice low, now addressing the woman. “There’s nowhere they can hide where Fischer Industries won’t find them.” He turns to Anthony as the woman wanders over to one of the windows, singing under her breath. “Now bring me back my godson!”
“Paradoxes,” the woman calls out to Anthony apropos of nothing, a dreamy look in her eyes as she turns back to face them. “Life when the world has ended, beauty in despair, love in a time of death.” Her expression turns thoughtful. “Penrose stairs. Arthur was always especially fond of those…”
“Uh…” What else is there to say to the crazy lady? Anthony looks to Mr. Browning for further instruction. “Sir?”
“You have your orders, Sergeant,” the other man says stiffly. “Now I expect-”
“Fond, but apologetic; he always used them far too often, and - why the apology? To me?” The woman interrupts suddenly, and she turns blazing eyes upon the business tycoon, advancing toward him dangerously. “The doctor.” She leans over the desk. “Why did he do that?”
Mr. Browning blinks at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“I woke them up!” It’s a shriek, and the woman reaches out with both hands, swiping papers and files off of the desk, her brown curls awry about her face. Anthony involuntarily takes a step back. “All of them, those who dreamed and damned themselves, like Dom!” She bares her teeth like a predator, but her eyes are wild and hurt, desperate and angry. “Who will wake me?”
“Restrain this woman, Sergeant Durden,” Mr. Browning orders, but Anthony doesn’t care to move a muscle, lest he agitate this woman who is clearly a few sandwiches short of a picnic, who leans over Browning with all the fury of an avenging angel, her every breath a heaving gasp, her fingernails claw-like and digging into the desk.
What he doesn’t recognize is that he’s watching a woman slowly becoming unhinged, a breakdown in the process, the ugly transition - delayed as it is - from the woman once known as Mallorie Cobb into nameless Shade.
* - * - *
May 30, 2028
We’ve stopped in what used to be a library - or at least that’s what I gather from all the random chunks of books and torn pages strewn all over the floor - to rest for a bit. I think everyone needs it. Not only are we running low on supplies, it’s getting colder and no one’s properly clothed for it. God, I can still remember when May used to be shorts and t-shirt weather. Now it’s in the low forties, if that, and I can barely write; my fingers are freezing.
- - - - -
The bombed out library offers little by ways of insulation and heating, and Robert’s teeth chatter as he hugs his knees to his chest, pulling the sleeves of his oversized sweater over his hands and bringing them to his mouth to blow on his freezing fingers, trying to conserve as much heat as possible. His toes curl inside his Italian leather loafers, the only remainder from Fischer Industries and a life that seems like so long ago.
It’s not been an easy transition, going from signing papers, filing out forms ordering more medicines from overseas, or directing shipments of supplies to being on the run. Suddenly, his life now consists of two scant “meals” a day and carefully maintained drinking water rations, of freezing down to his bones every night and sleeping in the back of a Jeep, of driving through boundaries he remembers being marked as safe and contained on the wall-to-wall maps hanging in the conference room of Fischer Industries USA, heading deeper in toward the Periphery every single day with people that, not so very long ago, he considered armed and dangerous fugitives.
Robert’s always been very good at holding his tongue though, so that’s what he does now most of the time, swallowing down any protests or concerns, staying silent until spoken to, all the while wondering why the hell he’s still alive.
“Not turning into a block of ice now, are we?”
He outright jumps a couple of inches into the air as Eames settles down beside him, back to the wall, wearing only a dark short-sleeved t-shirt, tattooed arms bared to the chill of the air. A quick glance a little ways away reveals why; the green cloth bomber jacket Robert had seen him wearing earlier now lies draped around Ariadne’s slim shoulders like a superhero’s cape as the young woman flits around on dainty feet, her brown eyes wide in her face as she eagerly scans the books scattered around on the floor, a smile curving her lips.
Eames doesn’t show the slightest indication of being able to feel the cold at all though, and Robert, not trusting his teeth not to chatter, shakes his head and resists the urge to lean in toward the other man’s solid warmth.
“Feel free to speak if you wish,” Eames says casually, eyes directed toward the vehicles parked in the far corner of the building where Cobb and Michelle (Robert still can’t quite stop thinking of them as “Broody” and “Reyes”; yet another reason why he refrains from talking) are examining something in the back of the truck. “You have questions, yes?”
“Why am I here?” It comes out before Robert can stop himself, and he clenches his fists, holding his breath and waiting for the worst.
“Hmm.” Eames somehow manages to make the wordless remark sound both dangerous and ten syllables longer than it is. He still doesn’t look at Robert, now peering intently at the darkness outside. “Would you rather be back at Fischer Industries?”
There is no hesitation in his answer. “No.” And that’s the god-honest truth, too; Robert would rather be anywhere else than back behind glass walls, living in a fantasy world built upon deception and lies.
“Very good, then. Neither would we, so here we are.” Eames makes a broad sweeping motion with his hand to indicate everyone else in the vicinity, then leans back and puts his hands behind his head. “Look here, Fischer. I’ve no intention to harm you. For one thing, you refused to continue taking part in your father and godfather’s schemes, which means you are neither cruel nor cowardly.” He raises a finger, as if ticking off the reasons as to why Robert still draws breath. “You are rather familiar with the inner workings of your own corporation and with Browning’s thought process, both of which make you a valuable asset.” Another finger. “And furthermore, if you were expecting us lot to be vengeful, murderous barbarians, I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong Resistance.” He pauses. “Or, what remains of the Resistance, that is.”
For a moment, neither of the two men speak; Robert unsure of how best to respond, and Eames seemingly unconcerned with the other’s unease. Eames then gives a low chuckle, raising his eyebrows and nodding toward where Ariadne stands triumphantly holding a huge volume aloft, the wide grin on her face indicating her pleasure at the find. “Besides, dear Ariadne would be most put out should you happen upon an untimely demise.”
“Why’s that?”
“It seems she’s appointed herself your personal guardian, of sorts.”
Robert’s jaw falls slack, just a little, because that’s…well. “I’m…I’m not sure I’ve given her a reason to…to…” His eyes dart back to Ariadne, who now sits on the floor, leaning against a block of concrete and leafing though the book; a young woman of slight stature and eyes that have seen too much, someone who owes him nothing and by all means, should hate him, but somehow doesn’t. It suddenly strikes him that she is very much like Captain Davidson in that aspect - fiercely loyal without apparent cause, and with a quiet strength far greater than appearances would suggest.
He hasn’t seen much of the Captain, as of late, and beyond a simple nod and a couple of seconds of eye contact here and there, he hasn’t had much of an opportunity to interact with the other man at all. Most of the time, Robert travels with Eames (all the better for the other man to keep an eye on him), and Arthur with Cobb (who glares at Robert with very thinly disguised mistrust, all dangerous intent and accusing eyes).
Sometimes Robert wants to shout that it wasn’t he who hurt the Captain, but he quickly bites down on the stupid urge, reminding himself that the only reason he’s still alive is due to the surprising kindness of those he formerly identified as the enemy.
“Well, given your namesake, I’m certain there’s not much you had to do in order to make a good impression.” Eames gives Robert a sideways glance. “So unless you give her a reason not to trust you, I gather Ariadne is willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.”
“Why?”
Eames barks out a laugh, short and bitter. “Why do people do anything?” he mutters, then inclines his head toward Ariadne. “Go on.”
“Sorry?”
“Well, if you fancy her, the first step would be to go and have a proper chat, yeah?”
Robert ducks his head, cheeks burning. “Right,” he mumbles, getting to his feet. “Excuse me.”
- - - - -
Eames shakes his head as he watches the Fischer boy stumble over to Ariadne, chuckling at the boy’s blind faith, which is by far the kindest word for ignorance. He’d asked why with all the guileless wonder of a child, both insistent and expectant of a straightforward answer that would never come.
Why do people do anything?
He thinks of Natasha and what she’d done in contacting Fischer Industries USA, wondering if she was telling the truth when she protested that she only meant well. It would make sense; as a physician, Natasha’s first thought always goes to human welfare and her first priority, the standard of living of those she saw to - and besides, Eames has never known her to be a cruel or conniving woman - but things can and do change, for the better or worse.
People change.
Eames tilts his head back, feeling the chill settle down into his bones, thinking of Natasha and medical supplies, of Michelle with her quick smile and fierce loyalty, of Cobb and the band he still wears that ties him to a dead woman. He thinks of Fischer’s earnestness to atone for his father’s sins, of finding Gordon a dark, changed, dangerous man after the advent of the Second Civil War. He glances over to see Ariadne pat the ground beside her in invitation and Fischer’s less than graceful attempt at taking a seat, and a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. Inwardly, he marvels at what kindness Ariadne possesses, what depths of forgiveness she is capable of, despite everything she’d personally suffered under the reign of Fischer Industries, despite living in a world where such mercy seems like nothing more than a show of weakness, a memory from a bygone era.
She is undoubtedly the strongest of all of them because of it, bless her.
Eames forgives you; I’m sure he really does, she had told Natasha sincerely before Eames sent the physician off with the others, but he just can’t trust you anymore.
Dear Ariadne. Eames closes his eyes and sits there, listening to Fischer’s quiet, hesitant attempts at making conversation with Ariadne, to the crackle of the fire Michelle’s started, and as he slips into sleep, he dreams of running and running with no place to hide, of waking up from this nightmare of a reality, of Fischer Industries and the Captain that he doesn’t know how to forgive.
* - * - *
June 3, 2028
Sometimes I wonder if I’m even dating this thing correctly. Kinda hard to keep track of the passing days when there’s no way of keeping track of time. Eames’ pocket watch stopped working yesterday, and since I haven’t been counting the minutes and the hours, I can only hazard a rough estimate as to what to date each entry. Guess it really doesn’t matter, as long as we’re still alive.
It’s been raining nonstop for a while now, and that’s always cheery, isn’t it? God, if it would just let up for an hour or two. The cars have been driving just fine, but Arthur mentioned something about the possibility of the tires getting stuck in the mud if the rain keeps up. I have a feeling that, if that happens, he’s going to be the first one to volunteer to dig them out. The idiot really doesn’t know when or how to take it easy.
His arm is bothering him again, I can tell. He can barely move it above his waist, but he refuses to be dosed with morphine or to take any painkillers, and I swear he never sleeps. Cobb said something about Arthur being an insomniac, but he has to sleep at least some of the time, right?
Every time I try to bring it up with him, he looks surprised that I’d ask about his health, that I’d even care. It really makes me want to cry. No one should ever wear that look, like being treated with even the smallest bit of kindness is something completely new and unheard of. Least of all, Arthur. Not after everything he’s already done for the Resistance, for Robert, for Cobb.
And for Eames.
- - - - -
“Is Captain Davidson - I mean, Arthur, is he…is he going to be alright?”
If Fish Junior’s blue eyes get any bigger, they’re going to fall out of his damn head. Michelle gallantly resists the urge to roll her eyes, although she too had been a bit shocked when earlier that evening, apropos of nothing, Broody had walked up behind the Captain and casually stuck a hypodermic needle into his neck. “He’ll be fine. Don’t get your knickers into a twist.” She crosses her arms. “I’m pretty sure Broody’s sitting up with him right now, so unless you want to go crash that party…”
She watches him falter at that, and refrains from shaking her head. Cobb should really let up on the kid; just the very mention of the former extractor looks like enough to make poor Fish Junior wet his pants. Broody has somehow gotten it into his head that the only reason Gordon went all Guantanamo Bay on the Captain is because Arthur had been working for Robert Fischer, never mind the fact that Gordon was a sadistic son of a bitch who didn’t need a reason to torture anyone.
Scapegoat, thy unfortunate name is Fish Junior.
“Look,” Michelle sighs, jamming a fist into her hip and raking her fingers through her hair. It’s not her job to coddle Fish Junior (especially since it seems like Shorty’s got that all covered), but she’s starting to get a soft spot for the kid, just like she has for Shorty, and that never bodes well. Damn baby blue eyes, she thinks. “I’ll go check up on him, alright?”
- - - - -
“That water’s supposed to be for drinking,” Arthur mutters groggily, words slurring slightly, eyelids too heavy to lift and limbs too leaden to raise in protest as he registers the feel of someone carefully wiping at the mud smudged up along his bared torso from when he’d fallen to the ground after Cobb’s sneak attack with the syringe. The morphine is definitely helping to ward off the pain, but really not doing much for Arthur’s depth perception or coherency.
The person continues the gentle ministrations without comment and Arthur’s brow creases ever so slightly as he realizes that the hands passing the damp washcloth over the mud, skating up lightly along his newly healed ribs and hesitating ever so slightly over scars both new and old, can’t possibly belong to Ariadne, as he previously thought. They’re too large, for one, with a square palm and calloused fingertips, and the trail they map out over his skin is far too familiar. “Cobb?” he asks hesitantly, stumbling over the name because it has too many damn letters for his heavy tongue to handle right now.
The hands still briefly, a near imperceptible pause, but Arthur’s always been one for seemingly insignificant details. “Not quite.”
Arthur’s breath stutters as he’s pulled forward into an embrace, leaning against the broad chest and cheek coming to rest on a strong shoulder as the other gently maneuvers his uncooperative limbs into his shirt. He waits for a count of three before he dares to open his eyes, peering out blearily through the fringe of his lashes. “Eames,” he breathes.
Eames’ face is half-shadowed in the scant light provided by their only battery-powered lantern, the raised ridge of the scar spanning his face and only narrowly missing one blue eye made all the more evident with the stark contrast. Arthur is suddenly overcome with the urge to find whoever dared to make that scar and rip his or her throat out with his bare hands. Eames’ face has always been the brightest thing in Arthur’s memory and he leans forward, wanting to chase the sun into the corners of that mouth, drawn toward this man who owns so much of him and doesn’t even know it -
“No.”
Arthur blinks. What?
Eames holds his gaze, blue eyes unwavering - there are exactly eleven flecks of silver in them - and he gently pushes Arthur back to lean against the side of the truck. “No,” he repeats quietly, as if Arthur didn’t hear it the first time and doesn’t feel the word working its way into his chest like a shard of glass. “Kindly release me, Arthur.”
Speechless, Arthur looks down and sees that his fingers have somehow tangled themselves in the folds of Eames’ shirt without his knowledge, and when he remains frozen, Eames reaches down, gently pulls them away, and stands. “Try to get some sleep, yeah?” he says softly, then turns without hesitation or fanfare, and walks away.
Arthur hasn’t had a full, comfortable night’s sleep since Cabo, and he wants to tell Eames this. He wants to tell the other man that he’s spent every single night since then thinking of him, that he only went to work for Fischer Industries to keep Cobb and the Resistance - and by extension, Eames - safe, that he was never a traitor, not really, that everything he’s done up until this point has been to get him back to Eames, so come back, please, damn it, come back.
- - - - -
His face is hidden in his hands, his shoulders shaking; each silent sob tears its way through his entire frame, and Michelle can’t do anything but stand there and stare.
On her way over to the truck to check up on the Captain per Fish Junior’s timid unspoken request, she’d caught sight of Eames heading out, his shoulders stiff and his face pinched, tight-lipped and eyes shuttered, and she’d only been all too ready to give that arrogant ass of a Captain a piece of her mind (and her fist) when she rounded the corner and found him like…like this.
And, strangely enough, this sight does more to convince her of the Captain’s character than all of his explanations about passing information off to Saito something or other in an attempt to bring down Fischer Industries USA, or his claims of trying to help the Resistance by means of rerouting supplies and lookout points, however true such assertions may be.
Suddenly now, he’s no longer a Captain, a traitor, or some point man extraordinaire - he’s a flesh and blood man who has been tortured and survived by sheer will, who dared to play both traitor and hero with equal ease and resolution, keeping up the charade so well that even those closest to him had been fooled, who is now broken in a way that has nothing to do with physical wounds, who is capable of shedding tears and feeling loneliness and heartache, and hurt. And Michelle knows this type of hurt, the kind that digs its claws deep into your chest and rips a gaping hole where your heart ought to be, the kind that wrenches each sob out of you until you’re gasping for air, the kind that means you’ve lost the one you love the most and he isn’t coming back, not ever.
* - * - *
Part 10