Fic: Made to be Broken, 2/2 [Inception]
Title: Made to be Broken, 2/2
Character/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, Robert Fischer, Peter Browning
Rating: PG - 13
Word Count: 1,751
Disclaimer: Mr. Nolan owns it all
Warnings: Language, mentions of self-harm, character death
Summary: After the Inception, Robert Fischer begins an attempt to dissolve Fishcer-Morrow Industries, but the opposition he faces sends him spiraling downwards in a self-destructive lifestyle from which he cannot escape - until he receives unexpected aid from an unlikely source.
Author's Notes: written for the square "self harm" for hc_bingo and for this prompt on inception_kink : "He breaks up his father's empire. Then he breaks himself."
Three weeks ago:
His knees hit the bathroom floor, hard, but he's too busy trying to expel the contents of his stomach - and maybe his stomach itself - into the toilet to really care about the twin spikes of pain that shoot up his thighs as he presses his forehead against the cool porcelain and dry heaves, desperately trying to recall what might've unsettled his stomach to the point he feels like that time someone spiked his drink back in freshman year of undergrad (oh, fond memories to be sure) - except that Robert can't ever remember getting food poisoning before, and then there's the fact that he hasn't eaten anything -
Oh, maybe that's the problem. Evidently, whiskey and cigarettes does not a healthy diet make.
With one last cough, he pushes himself up off of the floor, ignoring the way his arms shake under his own body weight. Unsteadily, he staggers out of the washroom, weaving a bit on his feet as his vision blurs at the edges, and grey spots dance in front of his eyes. With a small groan, he grabs at the back of the couch for support, fingers gripping weakly at the leather as his knees buckle.
Oh, goddamn- The stabbing pain emanates outward from somewhere at his core and Robert literally folds in upon himself, trying to remember how to breathe through it, how to breathe at all. If Maurice Fischer could see his son right now...
He muffles a cry of pain against his fist, and feels the hot tears of shame welling in his eyes; Robert squeezes his eyes shut and waits for the sensation of every single one of his nerve receptors rising up in rebellion and attacking each other to stop. It doesn't.
- - - - -
Arthur's fingers skim over the open file on the desk in front of him, eyes rapidly scanning over Robert Fischer's scant security detail (that had been Browning's arena, and his split with his godson pretty much leaves the Fischer heir defenseless) and then over documented sightings of Peter Browning himself, of conspicuous withdrawals from offshore accounts and visits to legal counsels that last more than five hours, narrowing in displeasure at the evidence of the man's underhanded dealings. In stark contrast, Robert has barely shown himself outside the hotel room he's been staying at for more than a month now, emerging thinner than ever, looking half-dead, and woefully unprepared for the next ugly battle in the courtroom.
Anyone with half a mind knows that all claims of Robert Fischer's inability to take over his father's company are ungrounded and irrelevant at best, and just plain stupid when brought to light and scrutinized carefully. The trouble is though, that those who have the money have the power, and Browning has clearly been playing this game for far longer than his opponent, who is too good of a man to even think of doing anything underhanded or not by the book. Robert is the type of man who puts his faith and sweat and tears into the system - and ends up getting cheated out of everything he puts into it.
Bzzzt. Bzzzt. His cell phone insists, and Arthur, without taking his eyes off of the work clearly cut out for him, raises it to his ear. "Arthur speaking."
"Arthur, whatever the hell it is you're doing, it has to stop."
Oh, Christ on a cracker. "Cobb." Well yeah, I'm doing great; how have you been?
Pushing back and away from the desk, he pinches the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb, already feeling the migraine coming on because of course, of course Cobb would catch wind of his point man's actions sooner or later, no matter how thoroughly Arthur tries to cover his tracks. Dominic Cobb wasn't called the best in the business for nothing, and that was still when he'd almost been a couple sandwiches short of a picnic. Now, after being reunited with his children and ridding himself (or as much as he could rid himself) of his late wife's haunting presence, it's no wonder that Cobb would find out, eventually.
"No. Yes, I'm - because it's...no, you listen to me, Cobb!"
Besides, Arthur has a sneaking suspicion that a certain forger may have had a hand in Cobb's revelation regarding Arthur's surveillance of the Fischer heir.
"Fischer isn't much a a threat to anyone right now. Yes, I'm sure. He's a mess." From the other end of the line, Cobb squawks something indignant, and Arthur sighs. "I think Browning is going to kill him."
Cobb goes quiet for a moment and Arthur can see the disbelieving squint on the other man's face. Then, after a long pause, "Do what you have to do. Stay safe."
Arthur knows that's as good as a nod of approval as he'll ever get from Cobb (not that he really needs it anyway, but Dom is his friend and has been for a long time, so he respects the older man's opinion), and responds in turn. "Will do."
* - * - *
Peter Browning hates hospitals. Always had, and always will. Ever since that heart attack seven years ago, he's hated anything having to do with the smell of antiseptic, doctors and their fake concern for lesser mortals, nurses and their overbearing coddling. He shudders in remembrance of the indignity of a catheter, the discomfort of an IV in his wrist, and the utter humiliation of those flimsy hospital gowns that don't cover nearly as much as they ought to, and he self-consciously adjusts his the silk tie looped around his throat and the starched collar of his white oxford.
Well. At least he's not the one in the hospital bed this time around. Young Robert looks pale, weak, and all around pitiful. His skin is so pale that Peter can clearly see the veins - purple, blue, green - under the near transparent whiteness of his eyelids, in his wrist, under the ugly crisscross of scarring running up and down the inside of his arm; there's a tube down his throat and he's hooked up to no less than five machines, all helping him live because he hasn't the will to do so anymore himself.
Poor boy.
"Poor, stupid boy," Peter murmurs, and for a moment, he does feel a slight twinge of regret as he thinks of everything that have might been and could have been, how much greater Robert could have made Fischer-Morrow Industries (because no matter what Maurice thought - Peter really does think the late Fischer had always been far too harsh on his only son - Robert was far more shrewd than his father had ever been, willful in his own right, and devoted to achieving a certain end). Unfortunately, Robert did always take after his mother, and his only and greatest weakness lies in his unwillingness to do whatever it takes to reach said end.
"Almost got you to give up the game, didn't we?" Peter murmurs, and reaches out to brush a stray strand of hair away from his godson's forehead; Robert's skin is cold. "But you've just just got a guardian angel on your shoulder, don't you, boy?"
* - * - *
Three days ago:
Robert's hands shake as he loops a tie around his arm and taps at the inside of his elbow, trying to find a vein. It really shouldn't be that hard; he can see the green lines under the rice-paper quality of his skin, but his fingers tremble against the syringe and he hisses slightly as he jabs himself and misses the vein completely. The resulting wince is really more of an afterthought than anything else; Robert really can't feel much of anything besides the unnamable creature gnawing his insides out.
(Vicodin doesn't help. The doctors can't find anything wrong with him, except for the obvious fact that he's losing too much weight. But it's been days since he's been able to keep anything down.)
Halfway through the last courtroom battle, he almost collapsed. The judge, looking as if he feared for Robert's life (and sanity, given that the young Fischer hadn't yet given up even when everyone expects him to do so), had called for an early recess that never ended; court was to reconvene in two days time - that is, in two hours time.
Finally though, finally he finds a vein and his muscles go slack as the drug enters into his system - and he promptly collapses.
* - * - *
"I'm sorry, Robert," Peter says quietly, and gently, gently he slips the pillow out from under the patient's head, careful not to jostle any of the multiple wires and tubes snaking in and out of the inert form, and places the pillow over Robert's delicate features, porcelain and sharp glass edges that look like they could shatter at any moment now. "Goodbye, son."
The cold, cold muzzle of a gun presses against the back of his head, directly at the base of his skull, and Peter Browning freezes. "Step away from him, you sick fucker."
* - * - *
Later that day, as the press explodes in a frenzy about the attempted murder on the comatose young Fischer heir by his own godfather, Robert dreams.
He dreams of time turning back, of a time when his mother was still alive and his father loved him, of fields of golden wheat and a labyrinth of a city, of a hurricane and a sea so still that its glassy surface looks like mirror. Presently though, he finds himself in the middle of a great empty white, and when he looks down at his feet, he sees shreds of red and blue and yellow - the pieces of a broken pinwheel, a childhood destroyed, a man who doesn't know what he's supposed to be.
My father wants me to be my own man.
And he will be.
Cupping the broken pieces together, close to his heart, Robert doesn't notice when the ragged edges of the pinwheel - which have somehow become as sharp as glass - tear his fingers to ribbons, doesn't notice that he's disintegrating himself, unraveling like all of those who have unwittingly become the victims of inception. Ahead of him, a tear opens up in the white sky (indeterminable from the white ground and white space around him) and Robert stands, and begins to walk toward the light spilling outwards from the crack.
* - * - *
A/N: Hmm...not entirely sure what I was going for here....
Thanks for reading!
Character/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, Robert Fischer, Peter Browning
Rating: PG - 13
Word Count: 1,751
Disclaimer: Mr. Nolan owns it all
Warnings: Language, mentions of self-harm, character death
Summary: After the Inception, Robert Fischer begins an attempt to dissolve Fishcer-Morrow Industries, but the opposition he faces sends him spiraling downwards in a self-destructive lifestyle from which he cannot escape - until he receives unexpected aid from an unlikely source.
Author's Notes: written for the square "self harm" for hc_bingo and for this prompt on inception_kink : "He breaks up his father's empire. Then he breaks himself."
Three weeks ago:
His knees hit the bathroom floor, hard, but he's too busy trying to expel the contents of his stomach - and maybe his stomach itself - into the toilet to really care about the twin spikes of pain that shoot up his thighs as he presses his forehead against the cool porcelain and dry heaves, desperately trying to recall what might've unsettled his stomach to the point he feels like that time someone spiked his drink back in freshman year of undergrad (oh, fond memories to be sure) - except that Robert can't ever remember getting food poisoning before, and then there's the fact that he hasn't eaten anything -
Oh, maybe that's the problem. Evidently, whiskey and cigarettes does not a healthy diet make.
With one last cough, he pushes himself up off of the floor, ignoring the way his arms shake under his own body weight. Unsteadily, he staggers out of the washroom, weaving a bit on his feet as his vision blurs at the edges, and grey spots dance in front of his eyes. With a small groan, he grabs at the back of the couch for support, fingers gripping weakly at the leather as his knees buckle.
Oh, goddamn- The stabbing pain emanates outward from somewhere at his core and Robert literally folds in upon himself, trying to remember how to breathe through it, how to breathe at all. If Maurice Fischer could see his son right now...
He muffles a cry of pain against his fist, and feels the hot tears of shame welling in his eyes; Robert squeezes his eyes shut and waits for the sensation of every single one of his nerve receptors rising up in rebellion and attacking each other to stop. It doesn't.
- - - - -
Arthur's fingers skim over the open file on the desk in front of him, eyes rapidly scanning over Robert Fischer's scant security detail (that had been Browning's arena, and his split with his godson pretty much leaves the Fischer heir defenseless) and then over documented sightings of Peter Browning himself, of conspicuous withdrawals from offshore accounts and visits to legal counsels that last more than five hours, narrowing in displeasure at the evidence of the man's underhanded dealings. In stark contrast, Robert has barely shown himself outside the hotel room he's been staying at for more than a month now, emerging thinner than ever, looking half-dead, and woefully unprepared for the next ugly battle in the courtroom.
Anyone with half a mind knows that all claims of Robert Fischer's inability to take over his father's company are ungrounded and irrelevant at best, and just plain stupid when brought to light and scrutinized carefully. The trouble is though, that those who have the money have the power, and Browning has clearly been playing this game for far longer than his opponent, who is too good of a man to even think of doing anything underhanded or not by the book. Robert is the type of man who puts his faith and sweat and tears into the system - and ends up getting cheated out of everything he puts into it.
Bzzzt. Bzzzt. His cell phone insists, and Arthur, without taking his eyes off of the work clearly cut out for him, raises it to his ear. "Arthur speaking."
"Arthur, whatever the hell it is you're doing, it has to stop."
Oh, Christ on a cracker. "Cobb." Well yeah, I'm doing great; how have you been?
Pushing back and away from the desk, he pinches the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb, already feeling the migraine coming on because of course, of course Cobb would catch wind of his point man's actions sooner or later, no matter how thoroughly Arthur tries to cover his tracks. Dominic Cobb wasn't called the best in the business for nothing, and that was still when he'd almost been a couple sandwiches short of a picnic. Now, after being reunited with his children and ridding himself (or as much as he could rid himself) of his late wife's haunting presence, it's no wonder that Cobb would find out, eventually.
"No. Yes, I'm - because it's...no, you listen to me, Cobb!"
Besides, Arthur has a sneaking suspicion that a certain forger may have had a hand in Cobb's revelation regarding Arthur's surveillance of the Fischer heir.
"Fischer isn't much a a threat to anyone right now. Yes, I'm sure. He's a mess." From the other end of the line, Cobb squawks something indignant, and Arthur sighs. "I think Browning is going to kill him."
Cobb goes quiet for a moment and Arthur can see the disbelieving squint on the other man's face. Then, after a long pause, "Do what you have to do. Stay safe."
Arthur knows that's as good as a nod of approval as he'll ever get from Cobb (not that he really needs it anyway, but Dom is his friend and has been for a long time, so he respects the older man's opinion), and responds in turn. "Will do."
* - * - *
Peter Browning hates hospitals. Always had, and always will. Ever since that heart attack seven years ago, he's hated anything having to do with the smell of antiseptic, doctors and their fake concern for lesser mortals, nurses and their overbearing coddling. He shudders in remembrance of the indignity of a catheter, the discomfort of an IV in his wrist, and the utter humiliation of those flimsy hospital gowns that don't cover nearly as much as they ought to, and he self-consciously adjusts his the silk tie looped around his throat and the starched collar of his white oxford.
Well. At least he's not the one in the hospital bed this time around. Young Robert looks pale, weak, and all around pitiful. His skin is so pale that Peter can clearly see the veins - purple, blue, green - under the near transparent whiteness of his eyelids, in his wrist, under the ugly crisscross of scarring running up and down the inside of his arm; there's a tube down his throat and he's hooked up to no less than five machines, all helping him live because he hasn't the will to do so anymore himself.
Poor boy.
"Poor, stupid boy," Peter murmurs, and for a moment, he does feel a slight twinge of regret as he thinks of everything that have might been and could have been, how much greater Robert could have made Fischer-Morrow Industries (because no matter what Maurice thought - Peter really does think the late Fischer had always been far too harsh on his only son - Robert was far more shrewd than his father had ever been, willful in his own right, and devoted to achieving a certain end). Unfortunately, Robert did always take after his mother, and his only and greatest weakness lies in his unwillingness to do whatever it takes to reach said end.
"Almost got you to give up the game, didn't we?" Peter murmurs, and reaches out to brush a stray strand of hair away from his godson's forehead; Robert's skin is cold. "But you've just just got a guardian angel on your shoulder, don't you, boy?"
* - * - *
Three days ago:
Robert's hands shake as he loops a tie around his arm and taps at the inside of his elbow, trying to find a vein. It really shouldn't be that hard; he can see the green lines under the rice-paper quality of his skin, but his fingers tremble against the syringe and he hisses slightly as he jabs himself and misses the vein completely. The resulting wince is really more of an afterthought than anything else; Robert really can't feel much of anything besides the unnamable creature gnawing his insides out.
(Vicodin doesn't help. The doctors can't find anything wrong with him, except for the obvious fact that he's losing too much weight. But it's been days since he's been able to keep anything down.)
Halfway through the last courtroom battle, he almost collapsed. The judge, looking as if he feared for Robert's life (and sanity, given that the young Fischer hadn't yet given up even when everyone expects him to do so), had called for an early recess that never ended; court was to reconvene in two days time - that is, in two hours time.
Finally though, finally he finds a vein and his muscles go slack as the drug enters into his system - and he promptly collapses.
* - * - *
"I'm sorry, Robert," Peter says quietly, and gently, gently he slips the pillow out from under the patient's head, careful not to jostle any of the multiple wires and tubes snaking in and out of the inert form, and places the pillow over Robert's delicate features, porcelain and sharp glass edges that look like they could shatter at any moment now. "Goodbye, son."
The cold, cold muzzle of a gun presses against the back of his head, directly at the base of his skull, and Peter Browning freezes. "Step away from him, you sick fucker."
* - * - *
Later that day, as the press explodes in a frenzy about the attempted murder on the comatose young Fischer heir by his own godfather, Robert dreams.
He dreams of time turning back, of a time when his mother was still alive and his father loved him, of fields of golden wheat and a labyrinth of a city, of a hurricane and a sea so still that its glassy surface looks like mirror. Presently though, he finds himself in the middle of a great empty white, and when he looks down at his feet, he sees shreds of red and blue and yellow - the pieces of a broken pinwheel, a childhood destroyed, a man who doesn't know what he's supposed to be.
My father wants me to be my own man.
And he will be.
Cupping the broken pieces together, close to his heart, Robert doesn't notice when the ragged edges of the pinwheel - which have somehow become as sharp as glass - tear his fingers to ribbons, doesn't notice that he's disintegrating himself, unraveling like all of those who have unwittingly become the victims of inception. Ahead of him, a tear opens up in the white sky (indeterminable from the white ground and white space around him) and Robert stands, and begins to walk toward the light spilling outwards from the crack.
* - * - *
A/N: Hmm...not entirely sure what I was going for here....
Thanks for reading!