Fic: A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall, 1/10 [Inception]
Title: A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall (1/10)
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, unrequited Robert/Arthur, past Cobb/Mal, hinted Robert/Ariadne, Browning, Saito
Rating: R
Word Count: 6,196
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!! ♥ ♥ ♥
Two Months Later
April 14, 2028
I’m staring to think that they’re doing this on purpose. What kind of idiot keeps on putting the short girl in charge of stocking shelves?
A drop of water lands on the corner of the page and Ariadne frowns, scowling up at the fat raindrops falling from the sky, rain that doesn’t quite smell like rain anymore, thanks to how much WWIII fucked up the atmosphere and weather patterns all around the world; apparently, the poor bastards down in Texas are getting buried in nonstop blizzards. Tucking her knees toward her chest, she scoots backwards under the awning of the storehouse, pen still moving across the page.
Not that I’m complaining, though. I’d much rather be doing this than washing clothes or nothing at all. God, imagine surviving both a nuclear war and another civil war, only to end up dying of boredom in one of these stupid refugee camps. Never thought I’d miss school so much.
“Hey, you there!”
She jumps at the bark, startled, and scrambles to her feet, immediately hiding the small notebook behind her back, trembling fingers gripping the worn cover tightly. The soldier glaring at her from under his combat helmet bears a striking resemblance to a drowned rat, water dripping his clothing and from the tip of his extremely pointed nose, and Ariadne bites the inside of her cheek to stifle a tiny smile. The urge to laugh quickly dies though, like a flower being crushed underfoot when the soldier moves forward a half step, combat boots squelching in the mud.
“The hell are you doing here, girl?”
Oh I’m sorry; you couldn’t tell? I’m knitting a sweater. What does it look like I’m doing? She resists the urge to roll her eyes and instead points to the notice posted beside the door, listing A8176-109 as on duty for storage inventory and shelve-stocking. The man grunts in return, and this time, she does make a face at his retreating back before ducking back into the storehouse, mentally cursing idiots who don’t use their voices for actual speech rather than caveman talk when they still have the capability to do so.
The door is a pain to shove closed and although Ariadne knows she’s not exactly a weakling (being short does not equal physical ineptitude, thank you very much), couldn’t the dimwitted architects at Fischer Industries have installed a door that weighs a little less than five fucking tons? Once inside, she heaves an inaudible sigh and drags the rickety old wooden stool from its place beside the door, squinting into the dim light of the few light bulbs installed in the ceiling that seem to have been strategically placed to provide the least amount of visibility possible.
Row upon row of wooden shelves stretch on for forever into the back of the storehouse, a long, flat-topped building with walls and a floor made of concrete, giving one the odd feeling of being inside a prison or perhaps one of the archive rooms in the fifty billion procedural cop shows that every single major broadcasting network used to keep on the air. Instead of being surrounded by boxes of cold case files or cells on either side though, she’s suddenly become Alice, lost in a nightmarish Wonderland of objects and trinkets collected for the sole sake of just having.
She wanders around the shelves, pulling objects here and there, reshelving them under the appropriate letters and categories, shelf number one for nonperishable, number two for blankets and clothing and the like, number three for medicinal supplies, A to Z, over and over again. Scratchy blankets made from burlap sacks, tins of sardines, cans of artichokes, a broken typewriter here, the sad remains of a smashed radio there - and who in the world is stupid enough to have put a pair of boots under ‘M’?
They are a nice pair of boots though, and Ariadne pauses for a moment, tiptoes to lift them off the shelf and examines them thoroughly, almost reverently. She hasn’t had a new pair of shoes in years, much less a pair of sturdy boots that actually fit. Sometimes (okay, most of the time), being five foot two and having size six feet really sucks. Plus, she hasn’t gotten new shoes since the batch of supplies that was supposed to have come to camp last week had to be rerouted to sector C-145. Since then, all the guards can talk about are the looters and stupid resistance members and how they’re all stupid rebel scum anyway (what is this, Star Wars?). All Ariadne really wants is a pair of new shoes and maybe a bar of soap.
Huh. She wiggles her toes against the leather, tilting her head first this way and that. They fit. Imagine that.
BANG.
What in the- Her hand immediately drops to the rosary tucked away in her pants pocket, guiltily fingering the crucifix through the khaki fabric. Oh, come on. So the Big Guy upstairs can sit back and watch the world go to absolute Hell, and she can’t even pilfer a pair of shoes? So not fair.
Instead of divine retribution come raining down from the fist of an angry God in the form of Ratface from earlier storming in and catching her in the act, Ariadne hears pandemonium coming from the other side of the concrete walls - yells, unidentified thumps and bangs, and the unmistakable spray of gunfire. Before World War III and the Second Civil War, she would’ve been ducking for cover and screaming herself hoarse, frightened out of her wits and behaving in the only manner a girl of no power and of little consequence can behave: like a victim.
Now though, her fingers creep into the double-sided lining of her thin sweater, closing around the handle of the single-bladed penknife hidden there, stepping backwards into the shadows. She’s been through this before, been through the horrors of anarchy and desperation and the havoc that follows, in which man becomes no better than beast and is thus reduced to such primitive and carnal instincts - to hunt, to kill, to fuck. She’s been through this before. And she swore to the God who let his supposedly beloved children tear each other to shreds that she wouldn’t ever let it happen to her again. And she fucking won’t.
Jaw set and eyes burning with resolution, Ariadne stands as a goddess facing down her adversary, a survivor, a mute young woman armed only with a knife and a rosary. Silent, trembling, and scared to death.
With an almighty screech of protest the door to the storehouse swings open, letting in a torrent of rainwater and a gust of wind, the yells of struggle from outside, and a silhouette of a man built like a goddamn mountain - a silhouette that closes the door behind him with one hand, glances up at his surroundings, and murmurs in an accent that can’t possibly be anything American -
“Jackpot.”
* - * - *
Robert can’t remember the last time he felt it.
If humans are social creatures, then Robert’s sure he must be an anomaly of some sort; not the special kind admired and revered by scholars and laymen alike, but the kind trapped and inspected under a microscope, oh so eloquently labeled “the freak” and then completely forgotten once the glamour fades. He’s gotten used to being kept out of sight and out of mind his entire life, a disappointment to the father who despises him, a stranger to the mother who didn’t love her son enough to stay, the young Fischer heir stranded overseas in the depths of depravity about whom no one gives a damn.
His face has never made it onto the cover of any magazines; his name has never been the topic of any conversation, scandalous, praiseworthy, or otherwise. Forever stuck in the shadow of his father’s majesty, Robert has never managed anything without a watchful eye zeroing in on his every move, supervising even the smallest action just to ensure he doesn’t screw anything up. Day by day he suffocates in the midst of immense space, starved for just one glance; or perhaps just one word that’s not an order or a rebuke, craving something, anything that he doesn’t know how to name because he’s never experienced it before.
And then suddenly, like a sliver of fresh air from a crack in the wall, here comes one permanent fixture in Robert’s daily routine: clean cut, proper, handsome Captain Davidson who’s here to protect him, to help him oversee the distribution of supplies from base, who’s here for him. For him.
Captain Davidson, who walks on silent feet and makes himself as scarce as a mirage but is always present whenever truly needed; Captain Davidson, who never looks anything less than perfectly presentable even when it’s three-thirty in the morning; Captain Davidson, whose face is always shuttered but never dishonest; Captain Davidson, a ribbon of smoke against the grey light of dawn, an enigma, a paradox who by all means shouldn’t exist, but does.
As the days pass by, Robert finds himself watching this living, breathing mystery perhaps far more than he should, and each night he falls into his bed and dreams of Captain Arthur Davidson stepping toward him, a razor-slim shadow in uniform (or some nights, it’s a three piece midnight suit complete with blood red tie), his unreadable eyes dark chasms of forever, a small smile curving his lips. He dreams of a man who is a silent demon, a ghost, a nonexistent shadow - and that unnamable something sparks, swells, and burns like a tangible ache in the hollow of his chest, a flame he doesn’t know how to extinguish.
- - - - -
Click. Click. Click.
His Oxfords echo noisily down along the empty corridor as he walks alone, awkwardly balancing five or fifty files in his arms. He’s always alone, always has been in this labyrinthine fortress of a building he now considers but hesitates to call home. No prattling assistant in a low-cut blouse teetering dangerously in stilettos nips at his heels, no trusted business associate strides alongside him, no one leads or follows, and as a stack of precariously balanced papers up at the very top of the stack slips and scatters all over the glossy black linoleum floors, no one’s there to catch them either.
Robert sighs as he carefully cradles the other files in one arm and stoops to retrieve the fallen papers, hissing out a curse as more files slip out of his grasp and spill everywhere. And isn’t this just the story of his life, trying to keep everything in order as bits and pieces fall out the other end and out of reach, mocking his best attempts to hold it all together.
Tracking records of shipment supplies.
Schedules of convoys heading in and out.
Dossiers of all the carefully screened employees at Fischer Industries USA.
Papers requiring a signature, scouting reports to be read, authorization needed here, and here, and here -
Robert feels an odd, hysterical scream bubbling in his throat as he sinks to his knees in the middle of the mess of all that constitutes his life right now. His hands tremble as he reaches out to gather everything back together, to stack it all up again - and really, Robert’s a bit surprised the deck of cards hasn’t fallen before now, long before now, and he can’t take it anymore. He can’t. He can’t.
“Mr. Fishcer?”
A voice (ashes and steel and smoke). A figure is kneeling down in front of him (kneeling down! Wonders of wonders), stripping black gloves away from elegant hands (a square palm, with long, thin fingers), and helping him clean up his mess (he’s always ever had to clean up his own messes), retrieving each paper one by one and shuffling them into a neat pile. Dark eyes stare at him, stare straight through him and fingers brush fleetingly against his own, just for the barest breath of a moment.
Oh.
Robert shudders, an invisible chill raising bumps on his skin, sending a shiver up his spine because oh, that’s what it was, what it is. That’s what it’s supposed to feel like.
Touch.
Captain Davidson stands; half of the files separated neatly and piled one on top of another in his steady hold, extending one hand out and downwards graciously, without expectation of anything in return, without malice or deceit, simply a tall pillar of the strength he’s offering now - and, as the other man helps him to his feet, Robert falls.
* - * - *
Holy Christ, where are you getting your Wheaties from, buddy? It’s a legitimate question too, because this guy is a fucking giant.
Okay, so he’s not really, but from where Ariadne’s standing - and that’s pressed up against the far wall, being as still as physically possible as not to attract unwanted attention - she can see a set of broad shoulders and a strong chest, muscles clearly defined in well-sculpted planes and contours beneath the wet material of the man’s shirt. As he turns, she catches sight of his face, half-hidden and half-lit by the eerily cast shadows.
It’s a handsome face, to be sure - an angular jaw peppered with stubble, a strong bone structure, lips that should have absolutely no business being on a man’s face (seriously, Ariadne’s only ever seen women with lips as full as that), and impish but intelligent eyes of the most intriguing blue-grey shade, eyes that speak of loss and troubled times among the flecks of confidence and mischief as he rocks back on his heels and scans the shelves that tower even above his head.
And then there’s the scar.
Her eyes follow the slightly puckered line of raised skin starting from above one eyebrow and narrowly missing the eye, spanning the bridge of the man’s straight nose and down the opposite cheek. It’s obviously a war wound, a physical reminder of the violence of the current times; perhaps from an enemy on the battlefield or inflicted by someone else just as crazed and desperate as everyone else. Even so, Ariadne’s surprised to find not a trace of malice or the blank-faced resignation marking the faces of everyone she sees these days, distorting their features into something uglier and more permanent than any scar. There’s cunning, sure, and intelligence, most definitely, but above all, when Ariadne looks into the man’s face, she sees kindness in the barely visible lines around his eyes and mouth, carved by years of hardship despite his youth, eyes filled with warmth and gentle amusement…
…directed right at her.
She gasps without sound, pressing even back further into the darkness, the shelves digging into her back. A stack of empty paint cans heaped way up high wobbles and topples, a symphony of noise as they clatter to the concrete floor, momentarily overwhelming the din coming from outside, but still drowned out by the pounding of her own pulse in her ears.
The man smiles reassuringly, hands outstretched in the universal gesture of calm. “Easy there, now. I’m not going to hurt you, dove.”
Yeah, sure. That’s what the other guy said too.
Ariadne stays frozen, fingers clutching the rosary and knife she knows will be no use against this Goliath (fine, fine. He looks about six foot one, but when the world’s ended, she can be excused a little hyperbole.), eyes wide and unblinking as she watches him step closer.
“What’re you doing here, hmm?” His voice is pitched low and soothing, like she’s a skittish cornered animal (and in a way, she is), steps slow and cautious. “Not stealing, are you?” He winks roguishly, with a quick grin that’s surely set the hearts of many a woman ablaze. “Tsk, tsk.”
Nettled, she opens her mouth to shoot back a retort, forgetting that she can’t, and settles for flipping him the bird. The man is undeterred though, and laughs, a low chuckle that makes Ariadene’s toes curl inside her newly acquired boots. “Ah, so she’s a spunky one.” His eyebrows raise fractionally, and then he lifts his hands, signs, mute, dove?
Jack of many trades, this one.
Fine then, he can talk nice, she grouses to herself. But can he run? She tenses, eyes flicking from the man’s jovial features (his grin crinkles the corners of his eyes, she realizes, and remembers with a pang how her father’s used to do the same) to the closed door, mentally measuring the distance and calculating the probability of being able to escape. It’s not a very high percentage count.
“You wouldn’t be wanting to go out there right now.” He’s watching her closely, and something in his tone - a sincere warning - halts her intended mad dash.
Ariadne looks away from his face then, takes in his worn green army jacket over the thin black shirt paired with muddy work boots, the three-day scruff along his cheeks, and suddenly she knows, she knows, and the anger bubbles up within her, boiling hot. This man is a member of the so-called resistance, ghosts and shadows hiding in the woods and building up an army to fight Fischer Industries, a la Robin Hood and his band of Merry Men (although lately, there’s no cause for anyone to be merry anymore).
And here he is, looting and stealing from people in need, like any other petty thief?
You- She’s so angry that her fingers are shaking. You’re a member of the resistance. Aren’t you. Aren’t you?! Her hands fly fast and furious, accusing.
And he smirks. “Smart girl. So you’ve heard of us, then? Hmm…” he studies her for a moment, her indignant scowl, her clenched jaw. “Not a fan?”
You son of a bitch. There are people here who need what you’re taking!
The sudden change in the man’s expression is swift and frightening; his eyes grow cold in an instant, his demeanor flips. “Ah, so, yet another one of Fishcer’s adoring crowd.”
He sounds disappointed for some reason, and Ariadne feels like ripping her hair out. Demanding that other people not put words in her mouth was so much easier when she could actually speak. And how dare he, how dare he suggest such a thing?
I wouldn’t adore that little fucker if you-
Above her head (way above her head) a window shatters, and a bullet embeds itself in a wooden shelf.
The next thing she knows, Ariadne’s nose makes a very fond acquaintance with the floor. The man’s practically lying on top of her and her panic tastes like the acid of bile rising up in her throat, choking around the voiceless scream she can’t utter; she lifts her fists to beat at him, but he grabs both of them in one large hand, and hisses, “Quiet, keep quiet, and stay out of sight.”
She does as he says, shrinking back into the surrounding heaps of cellophane and bubble wrap, willing herself to become invisible as well as mute, fear coating the back of her throat with sandpaper as the man draws a gun (a huge, silver beauty of a Beretta 92FS Brigadier - yeah, she knows about guns; unladylike, but so what?) from the holster strapped to his thigh, movements practiced and quick. A drop of rainwater falls from his hair and slips down his forehead, following the path of the scar all the way across his face.
BANG.
The door slams open, revealing Ratface and an AK-47. “You,” he sneers, and clomps into the storehouse, boots caked up to the ankle in mud. “So, the infamous Eames himself.” He cackles. “Oh, I’ve got you now.”
Eames? Ariadne’s eyes grow wide. This is the leader of the resistance? This scruffy, silver-tongued charmer who’s not even American? Oh, she’s heard of him all right, and she doesn’t know what she was expecting, but certainly not…this.
“Have you?”
The Beretta is nowhere to be seen and Eames sounds calm, far too calm for someone staring down the barrel of a semi-automatic. So, not only is he a thief, but he’s apparently stupid or suicidal too. Just great. Ariadne tries to push further back into her meager cover and the cellophane crinkles, catching Ratface’s attention; the guard keeps his weapon trained on the newly identified resistance leader and cranes his neck, peering into the darkness. “Got a little accomplice with you?” he asks with a contemptuous curl of his lip, immensely proud of snagging two birds with one stone. “Get out of there!”
The soldier’s face falls almost comically at the sight of Ariadne shuffling out of the shadows, hands lifted up high on either side of her head and he grunts, jerking his head toward the door, obviously an unspoken command to get out, as if a mute young woman isn’t worthy of attention or words.
As she slowly steps past the two men, Ariadne halfway expects to be grabbed by the resistance leader and used as a hostage, or literally seized by the scruff of the neck and kicked outside, gathering by the way Ratface glares at her. “Keep moving,” he snarls as she stoops to retrieve her fallen notebook, and she glares back with equal ferocity.
Oh, bite me, you bastard.
“Leave the girl alone,” Eames says suddenly, and his tone is suddenly all steel and quiet command; it’s an order that brokers no argument, a directive coming from the mouth of a man who’s known both servitude and leadership and obviously has no problem slipping into either role as easily as one might shrug on a jacket. “Let her get her diary and then be out of this, yeah?”
“Shut up.” The barrel of the AK-47 shifts ever so slightly; Ratface’s eye twitches, and he looks ready to burst a blood vessel at being told what to do by his apparent captive.
Ariadne’s not sure why she does it. Upon many an occasion in the future, when she looks back on this moment, she’s still not entirely sure why she looks into the face that she doesn’t even know but trusts, the scarred countenance of a man already touched by a war never even his, a foreigner stranded on foreign soil and fighting for a people to whom he owes no claim - and makes the decision that changes absolutely everything.
Eames’s eyes widen and he starts to shake his head no, but Ariadne’s never been good at following directions. Her lips press into a thin, hard line as she takes in Ratface’s stance - feet planted shoulder width apart - and, raising her right foot, she kicks him square in the family jewels with the toe of her new, sturdy boot.
Say what you will about her small stature, but Ariadne played soccer for twelve years straight and that, combined with the amazing ability inherent in all women to really do some damage when necessary, brings about the desired result.
Ratface lets out the highest pitched shriek Ariadne has ever heard, howling out something that sounds like a cross between the yowl of a wet alley cat and the cry of a wounded animal. His finger inadvertently depresses the trigger of his gun and the AK-47 spits lead in a wide arc high into the storehouse ceiling; his face, contorted with pain, meets the butt of Eames’s Beretta and he drops like a stone.
For a moment they just stare at each other, man and young woman, resistance leader and not-so-innocent bystander, blue-grey eyes meeting brown. It stretches on for ages until he speaks, sounding impressed. “Well, that was easier than I expected.”
“Eames?”
The door to the storehouse bangs open again, admitting a horde of people - Eames’s people, obviously - a motley crew of men and women of disparate ages and ethnicities flocking toward the shelves. Ariadne sees a middle aged black man carefully sweeping rolls of bandages and bottles of ibuprofen into a satchel marked with a red cross; a whippet-thin elderly Asian woman lifts what looks like five times her weight in crates of canned goods with practiced ease; a tall, strapping blonde underwear model look-alike strides past with two barrels of gasoline under each arm. A middle-aged man with piercing blue eyes and a world-weary face breaks away from the rest of the group and makes his way over, where Eames is still looking Ariadne over like a particularly interesting specimen he can’t quite figure out, and Ariadne is trying her best not to squirm under the scrutiny.
“Who’s this?” he asks bluntly, inclining his head toward her. Ariadne can’t help but fidget just a bit under his stare, because it’s one of great intensity and little to no amity, as if he’s gotten his fair share of hardships from life and hesitates to ever trust easily again.
Eames finishes giving her a once-over and catches her eye, winking. “My new pet.”
The other man is clearly not amused, and Ariadne is right there along with him. “Eames.” His tone is long-suffering, as if he’s used to dealing with childish behavior.
“What?” Eames shrugs. “Haven’t gotten around to picking out a name for the little dove yet though, so-”
Ariadne’s script is large and loopy, leaning to one side in her haste to scribble the words down. My name is ARIADNE. I’m not a dove, and I’m not your pet.
Eames’s grin widens, and he opens his mouth for what promises to be a clever comeback, and is drowned out by the sound of a rumble in the distance, more shouts of an increasingly frantic nature reaching the ears of everyone gathered inside the storehouse, as well as the static of an order shouted through a two-way radio: “-shoot on sight, I repeat, shoot on sight!”
Reinforcements.
What happens next is controlled chaos. The resistance members start heading out the door in a steady, continuous stream, drawing weapons of all different styles and sizes, carefully hefting their stolen goods up over their shoulders. The blue-eyed man gives Eames what can only be described as a Look with a capital ‘L,’ tipping his head in Ariadne’s direction before turning on his heel and following the crowd.
Eames chuckles again, stoops slightly, and picks Ariadne clean off her feet, heading toward the exit with his own stolen good slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
Carefully clutching the man’s broad shoulders with one hand and her notebook in the other, Ariadne mentally composes another journal entry in her mind: Scratch that bit about being bored. I think things just got a whole hell of a lot more interesting.
* - * - *
“Hai?”
A brief pause, then, in a hushed whisper - “It’s me.”
“Ah, Captain.” From the background comes the din of what sounds like a rambunctious dinner party until the speaker peels away from the congregation, presumably stepping into the adjacent quieter room. “To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?”
“Check your secure network. I sent the files over this morning.”
The speaker sounds both pleasant and pleased, but not at all surprised at the news. “Of course. Ahead of schedule, as always. You are a most diligent man, Mr. Davidson.”
“I’m a busy man. What do you want next?”
“Rumor is that Fischer Industries USA is expecting an entire shipment of arms from South Africa next month. Details on the parcel’s intended route would be much appreciated.”
“Done.”
- - - - -
Well. Robert sits back and gazes blankly at his desk blotter, unsure of what to do with himself, given that he has nothing to do. The Captain had arrived about an hour ago, as straight-backed and poised as ever, quietly accepting the largest stack of files on the corner of the desk and turning smoothly on his heel, leaving Robert to stare speechlessly at his departing back and the tiny folds in the back of his uniform that appeared as he shifted the files in his lean arms.
Captain Arthur Lawrence Davidson.
The man doesn’t sleep. Robert’s sure of it.
Either that, or he has to have some extra hours of the day hidden away somewhere; how else is it possible for him to get done with as much work as he does? The sheer number of files, scouting reports, and other lengthy notices he ploughs through with the greatest of ease compared to what Robert manages to complete in the same amount of time would be embarrassing if it wasn’t so admirable. For the first time in what seems like forever, Robert finds that he can actually see the smooth wooden surface of his desk, now divested of the piles upon piles of paperwork that would’ve driven even the most seasoned insurance agent to a mental breakdown.
A pile of completed files sits neatly stacked to his left (all of the pages lying one on top of another in perfect alignment, arranged in what looks like an exact ninety-degree angle to the desk’s corner. Robert’s tempted to get out a protractor and measure it down to the last degree.), but he’s long ago given up looking over the Captain’s reports; there are never any mistakes to be found anyway.
Pushing away from his desk, Robert crosses the length of the spacious office and stands in the doorway, squinting along the dimly lit hallway disappearing into the dark corridors. There’s no one to be seen of course; he doesn’t know why he checks every time, very much like a child casting nervous glances both ways before crossing a street, before he dares to venture out of his lonely but safe haven and out into the real world. It’s as if he’s unconsciously asking the permission of an absent mother, an emotionally and physically distant father, a godfather whom he never sees unless something’s gone wrong - and asking permission for what? To reveal himself to the world in all his insignificant inadequacy? To exist?
Shaking his head, Robert slips quietly out of the workspace, casually slipping his hands in his pockets and walking slowly to the large wall of windows on the other side of the hallway, pane after pane of tinted and bulletproof glass, opaque and not only shutting Fischer Industries’ secrets and security in, but simultaneously keeping everything and everyone else out - a prison and a citadel all in one.
He closes his eyes, leaning his forehead against the smooth glass that shields his sight from the horrors and depravity of the tragic remains of what used to be America the Beautiful, but even while momentarily blinded, Robert can still see him, a lean frame bespeaking hidden strength and agility, a powerful presence he doesn’t know how to banish from his mind.
Captain Arthur Lawrence Davidson.
Robert’s always ever had to clean up his own messes. He doesn’t have a team of lawyers or a media liaison on speed dial ready to do damage control, he learned as a child where to find the broom and dustpan when the lamp falls and shatters into a thousand pieces on the marble floor, where to find the Elmer’s glue, how to take the consequences without a word when what’s broken can’t ever be fixed with childish hope and faith. As a result, he was an incredibly cautious child, an equally vigilant and reticent adolescent, and now, is a man who knows how to analyze a situation before not so much jumping in headfirst as standing on the riverbank and dipping one foot in. He knows right from wrong like he knows his own name, and how to choose the straight and narrow path in the elevator rides and paces from his bedroom to office, from office to conference room, from conference room to dining room, from dining room to bedroom. He knows how to stay out of trouble, how to push his own wants and needs into the back of his mind for the sake of the greater good before they begin to manifest as words or even thoughts. He knows how to deny himself everything and anything, knows how to just stop expecting a better day to come, a better life to arrive. He knows and just simply does.
But this?
Robert bends the fingers of his left hand in toward his palm and remembers the feel of skin against skin against cold linoleum floor and stiff paper, remembers the brush of fingers against the inside of his wrist that sent his pulse racing, remembers touch and the name to go with the face of silent majesty and impassive dignity. Oh and this is wrong, wrong because the Captain is a man and an employee to boot. Off limits. Robert’s knows the limits; he can recite them backwards and forwards and in his sleep. It’s so terribly wrong and although he knows it, Robert doesn’t know how to stop.
Captain Davidson is more than Robert can describe or ever possibly hope to understand; he’s captivating and emotionally reserved, solid and safe, an intrigue to watch from afar and-
-and walking down the hallway, straight towards him.
Robert falters. There’s nowhere to hide here; Fischer Industries is all transparent glass on the inside and opaque barriers on the outside, and so he freezes, holding his breath as the Captain approaches silently, a stealthy form of light and dark that surprisingly, doesn’t disappear as he steps into the meager light spilling out of the office, leather-gloved hands a terrifying and stark contrast against the pale manila of the dossier he sets on Robert’s desk.
Suddenly then, he stills.
In the background, the soft music spilling from the horn of the old antique gramophone (Uncle Peter thought it added a touch of class in the otherwise woefully empty room and Robert, as always, said nothing to the contrary) swells, trembling notes that had been barely audible over the ever-present hum of the main power generators dispensing electricity throughout the entire building now striking the air with power and majesty, the bows of violins long ago destroyed sliding against strings that no longer exist and making them sing, dance, shatter.
Robert waits a beat, and then another. He inches closer, eyes narrowing at where the other man stands directly on the line between lit office and dark hallway, handsome profile on display and bathed in the soft glow of the office light. The Captain’s eyes are, for once, soft; unguarded and speaking - hell, screaming - a thousand different things in a thousand different languages, none of which Robert can even begin to decipher. In that one instant, the music strips away the all the mystery; the sense of near divinity surrounding Arthur Davidson disappears as he closes his eyes, eyelashes dark against pale skin and a tear slips down one smooth cheek, as the corner of his lips twitch upwards fractionally.
He’s beautiful.
The music undoes the Captain, makes him less than a god but even more to Robert in that way, because now he’s just a man. He’s flesh and blood and bone, real and touchable. And so touch Robert does, a gentle hand upon the Captain’s shoulder -
-then he’s pinned flat against the wall of his office, breath stripped from his lungs and with an arm pressed against his trachea, staring into Captain Davidson’s eyes, and what Robert sees there (longing, loneliness, loss) breaks his heart.
“Captain?”
“Mr. Fischer.” Captain Davidson blinks; the muscles in his forearm flex against Robert’s throat and then he steps away gracefully, taking in a deep breath. “My apologies; you startled me.”
Robert can only wave the apology off, inwardly marveling at the other man’s strength and speed, still staring, wanting to memorize the last remnants of the Captain’s open expression, so haunted and stunning and honest, replay it over and over in his mind like a broken reel of film. “I’m guessing you haven’t heard music in a while, Captain?”
A simple nod. “Far too long.” Captain Davidson tilts his head back and his eyes go distant, gazing inwards and back into a past Robert doesn’t know and can’t possibly imagine. “L’Estro Armonico, Opus Three, Concerto number eight in A minor for two violins and strings.” His voice is a soft twist of velvet in the dark, words weighed down with unknown meaning; Robert very nearly shivers, but keeps himself still. “It’s always been a personal favorite.”
It’s wrong, wrong, wrong but Robert wants to be selfish, wants to see more, simply wants so much that his lips part on their own accord: “Then please, stay.”
“I’m afraid I can’t.” The Captain steps back, inclining his head in a respectful nod. “Good night, Mr. Fischer.”
Robert watches him go, music swelling to a crescendo and then dwindling into a whisper of bow against strings.
- - - - -
That night, when Robert sleeps, he dreams of strings clashing and battling each other, screaming out notes of desire and despair; he dreams and dreams and dreams of dying and nothing at all.
* - * - *
Part 2
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, unrequited Robert/Arthur, past Cobb/Mal, hinted Robert/Ariadne, Browning, Saito
Rating: R
Word Count: 6,196
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!! ♥ ♥ ♥
Two Months Later
April 14, 2028
I’m staring to think that they’re doing this on purpose. What kind of idiot keeps on putting the short girl in charge of stocking shelves?
A drop of water lands on the corner of the page and Ariadne frowns, scowling up at the fat raindrops falling from the sky, rain that doesn’t quite smell like rain anymore, thanks to how much WWIII fucked up the atmosphere and weather patterns all around the world; apparently, the poor bastards down in Texas are getting buried in nonstop blizzards. Tucking her knees toward her chest, she scoots backwards under the awning of the storehouse, pen still moving across the page.
Not that I’m complaining, though. I’d much rather be doing this than washing clothes or nothing at all. God, imagine surviving both a nuclear war and another civil war, only to end up dying of boredom in one of these stupid refugee camps. Never thought I’d miss school so much.
“Hey, you there!”
She jumps at the bark, startled, and scrambles to her feet, immediately hiding the small notebook behind her back, trembling fingers gripping the worn cover tightly. The soldier glaring at her from under his combat helmet bears a striking resemblance to a drowned rat, water dripping his clothing and from the tip of his extremely pointed nose, and Ariadne bites the inside of her cheek to stifle a tiny smile. The urge to laugh quickly dies though, like a flower being crushed underfoot when the soldier moves forward a half step, combat boots squelching in the mud.
“The hell are you doing here, girl?”
Oh I’m sorry; you couldn’t tell? I’m knitting a sweater. What does it look like I’m doing? She resists the urge to roll her eyes and instead points to the notice posted beside the door, listing A8176-109 as on duty for storage inventory and shelve-stocking. The man grunts in return, and this time, she does make a face at his retreating back before ducking back into the storehouse, mentally cursing idiots who don’t use their voices for actual speech rather than caveman talk when they still have the capability to do so.
The door is a pain to shove closed and although Ariadne knows she’s not exactly a weakling (being short does not equal physical ineptitude, thank you very much), couldn’t the dimwitted architects at Fischer Industries have installed a door that weighs a little less than five fucking tons? Once inside, she heaves an inaudible sigh and drags the rickety old wooden stool from its place beside the door, squinting into the dim light of the few light bulbs installed in the ceiling that seem to have been strategically placed to provide the least amount of visibility possible.
Row upon row of wooden shelves stretch on for forever into the back of the storehouse, a long, flat-topped building with walls and a floor made of concrete, giving one the odd feeling of being inside a prison or perhaps one of the archive rooms in the fifty billion procedural cop shows that every single major broadcasting network used to keep on the air. Instead of being surrounded by boxes of cold case files or cells on either side though, she’s suddenly become Alice, lost in a nightmarish Wonderland of objects and trinkets collected for the sole sake of just having.
She wanders around the shelves, pulling objects here and there, reshelving them under the appropriate letters and categories, shelf number one for nonperishable, number two for blankets and clothing and the like, number three for medicinal supplies, A to Z, over and over again. Scratchy blankets made from burlap sacks, tins of sardines, cans of artichokes, a broken typewriter here, the sad remains of a smashed radio there - and who in the world is stupid enough to have put a pair of boots under ‘M’?
They are a nice pair of boots though, and Ariadne pauses for a moment, tiptoes to lift them off the shelf and examines them thoroughly, almost reverently. She hasn’t had a new pair of shoes in years, much less a pair of sturdy boots that actually fit. Sometimes (okay, most of the time), being five foot two and having size six feet really sucks. Plus, she hasn’t gotten new shoes since the batch of supplies that was supposed to have come to camp last week had to be rerouted to sector C-145. Since then, all the guards can talk about are the looters and stupid resistance members and how they’re all stupid rebel scum anyway (what is this, Star Wars?). All Ariadne really wants is a pair of new shoes and maybe a bar of soap.
Huh. She wiggles her toes against the leather, tilting her head first this way and that. They fit. Imagine that.
BANG.
What in the- Her hand immediately drops to the rosary tucked away in her pants pocket, guiltily fingering the crucifix through the khaki fabric. Oh, come on. So the Big Guy upstairs can sit back and watch the world go to absolute Hell, and she can’t even pilfer a pair of shoes? So not fair.
Instead of divine retribution come raining down from the fist of an angry God in the form of Ratface from earlier storming in and catching her in the act, Ariadne hears pandemonium coming from the other side of the concrete walls - yells, unidentified thumps and bangs, and the unmistakable spray of gunfire. Before World War III and the Second Civil War, she would’ve been ducking for cover and screaming herself hoarse, frightened out of her wits and behaving in the only manner a girl of no power and of little consequence can behave: like a victim.
Now though, her fingers creep into the double-sided lining of her thin sweater, closing around the handle of the single-bladed penknife hidden there, stepping backwards into the shadows. She’s been through this before, been through the horrors of anarchy and desperation and the havoc that follows, in which man becomes no better than beast and is thus reduced to such primitive and carnal instincts - to hunt, to kill, to fuck. She’s been through this before. And she swore to the God who let his supposedly beloved children tear each other to shreds that she wouldn’t ever let it happen to her again. And she fucking won’t.
Jaw set and eyes burning with resolution, Ariadne stands as a goddess facing down her adversary, a survivor, a mute young woman armed only with a knife and a rosary. Silent, trembling, and scared to death.
With an almighty screech of protest the door to the storehouse swings open, letting in a torrent of rainwater and a gust of wind, the yells of struggle from outside, and a silhouette of a man built like a goddamn mountain - a silhouette that closes the door behind him with one hand, glances up at his surroundings, and murmurs in an accent that can’t possibly be anything American -
“Jackpot.”
* - * - *
Robert can’t remember the last time he felt it.
If humans are social creatures, then Robert’s sure he must be an anomaly of some sort; not the special kind admired and revered by scholars and laymen alike, but the kind trapped and inspected under a microscope, oh so eloquently labeled “the freak” and then completely forgotten once the glamour fades. He’s gotten used to being kept out of sight and out of mind his entire life, a disappointment to the father who despises him, a stranger to the mother who didn’t love her son enough to stay, the young Fischer heir stranded overseas in the depths of depravity about whom no one gives a damn.
His face has never made it onto the cover of any magazines; his name has never been the topic of any conversation, scandalous, praiseworthy, or otherwise. Forever stuck in the shadow of his father’s majesty, Robert has never managed anything without a watchful eye zeroing in on his every move, supervising even the smallest action just to ensure he doesn’t screw anything up. Day by day he suffocates in the midst of immense space, starved for just one glance; or perhaps just one word that’s not an order or a rebuke, craving something, anything that he doesn’t know how to name because he’s never experienced it before.
And then suddenly, like a sliver of fresh air from a crack in the wall, here comes one permanent fixture in Robert’s daily routine: clean cut, proper, handsome Captain Davidson who’s here to protect him, to help him oversee the distribution of supplies from base, who’s here for him. For him.
Captain Davidson, who walks on silent feet and makes himself as scarce as a mirage but is always present whenever truly needed; Captain Davidson, who never looks anything less than perfectly presentable even when it’s three-thirty in the morning; Captain Davidson, whose face is always shuttered but never dishonest; Captain Davidson, a ribbon of smoke against the grey light of dawn, an enigma, a paradox who by all means shouldn’t exist, but does.
As the days pass by, Robert finds himself watching this living, breathing mystery perhaps far more than he should, and each night he falls into his bed and dreams of Captain Arthur Davidson stepping toward him, a razor-slim shadow in uniform (or some nights, it’s a three piece midnight suit complete with blood red tie), his unreadable eyes dark chasms of forever, a small smile curving his lips. He dreams of a man who is a silent demon, a ghost, a nonexistent shadow - and that unnamable something sparks, swells, and burns like a tangible ache in the hollow of his chest, a flame he doesn’t know how to extinguish.
- - - - -
Click. Click. Click.
His Oxfords echo noisily down along the empty corridor as he walks alone, awkwardly balancing five or fifty files in his arms. He’s always alone, always has been in this labyrinthine fortress of a building he now considers but hesitates to call home. No prattling assistant in a low-cut blouse teetering dangerously in stilettos nips at his heels, no trusted business associate strides alongside him, no one leads or follows, and as a stack of precariously balanced papers up at the very top of the stack slips and scatters all over the glossy black linoleum floors, no one’s there to catch them either.
Robert sighs as he carefully cradles the other files in one arm and stoops to retrieve the fallen papers, hissing out a curse as more files slip out of his grasp and spill everywhere. And isn’t this just the story of his life, trying to keep everything in order as bits and pieces fall out the other end and out of reach, mocking his best attempts to hold it all together.
Tracking records of shipment supplies.
Schedules of convoys heading in and out.
Dossiers of all the carefully screened employees at Fischer Industries USA.
Papers requiring a signature, scouting reports to be read, authorization needed here, and here, and here -
Robert feels an odd, hysterical scream bubbling in his throat as he sinks to his knees in the middle of the mess of all that constitutes his life right now. His hands tremble as he reaches out to gather everything back together, to stack it all up again - and really, Robert’s a bit surprised the deck of cards hasn’t fallen before now, long before now, and he can’t take it anymore. He can’t. He can’t.
“Mr. Fishcer?”
A voice (ashes and steel and smoke). A figure is kneeling down in front of him (kneeling down! Wonders of wonders), stripping black gloves away from elegant hands (a square palm, with long, thin fingers), and helping him clean up his mess (he’s always ever had to clean up his own messes), retrieving each paper one by one and shuffling them into a neat pile. Dark eyes stare at him, stare straight through him and fingers brush fleetingly against his own, just for the barest breath of a moment.
Oh.
Robert shudders, an invisible chill raising bumps on his skin, sending a shiver up his spine because oh, that’s what it was, what it is. That’s what it’s supposed to feel like.
Touch.
Captain Davidson stands; half of the files separated neatly and piled one on top of another in his steady hold, extending one hand out and downwards graciously, without expectation of anything in return, without malice or deceit, simply a tall pillar of the strength he’s offering now - and, as the other man helps him to his feet, Robert falls.
* - * - *
Holy Christ, where are you getting your Wheaties from, buddy? It’s a legitimate question too, because this guy is a fucking giant.
Okay, so he’s not really, but from where Ariadne’s standing - and that’s pressed up against the far wall, being as still as physically possible as not to attract unwanted attention - she can see a set of broad shoulders and a strong chest, muscles clearly defined in well-sculpted planes and contours beneath the wet material of the man’s shirt. As he turns, she catches sight of his face, half-hidden and half-lit by the eerily cast shadows.
It’s a handsome face, to be sure - an angular jaw peppered with stubble, a strong bone structure, lips that should have absolutely no business being on a man’s face (seriously, Ariadne’s only ever seen women with lips as full as that), and impish but intelligent eyes of the most intriguing blue-grey shade, eyes that speak of loss and troubled times among the flecks of confidence and mischief as he rocks back on his heels and scans the shelves that tower even above his head.
And then there’s the scar.
Her eyes follow the slightly puckered line of raised skin starting from above one eyebrow and narrowly missing the eye, spanning the bridge of the man’s straight nose and down the opposite cheek. It’s obviously a war wound, a physical reminder of the violence of the current times; perhaps from an enemy on the battlefield or inflicted by someone else just as crazed and desperate as everyone else. Even so, Ariadne’s surprised to find not a trace of malice or the blank-faced resignation marking the faces of everyone she sees these days, distorting their features into something uglier and more permanent than any scar. There’s cunning, sure, and intelligence, most definitely, but above all, when Ariadne looks into the man’s face, she sees kindness in the barely visible lines around his eyes and mouth, carved by years of hardship despite his youth, eyes filled with warmth and gentle amusement…
…directed right at her.
She gasps without sound, pressing even back further into the darkness, the shelves digging into her back. A stack of empty paint cans heaped way up high wobbles and topples, a symphony of noise as they clatter to the concrete floor, momentarily overwhelming the din coming from outside, but still drowned out by the pounding of her own pulse in her ears.
The man smiles reassuringly, hands outstretched in the universal gesture of calm. “Easy there, now. I’m not going to hurt you, dove.”
Yeah, sure. That’s what the other guy said too.
Ariadne stays frozen, fingers clutching the rosary and knife she knows will be no use against this Goliath (fine, fine. He looks about six foot one, but when the world’s ended, she can be excused a little hyperbole.), eyes wide and unblinking as she watches him step closer.
“What’re you doing here, hmm?” His voice is pitched low and soothing, like she’s a skittish cornered animal (and in a way, she is), steps slow and cautious. “Not stealing, are you?” He winks roguishly, with a quick grin that’s surely set the hearts of many a woman ablaze. “Tsk, tsk.”
Nettled, she opens her mouth to shoot back a retort, forgetting that she can’t, and settles for flipping him the bird. The man is undeterred though, and laughs, a low chuckle that makes Ariadene’s toes curl inside her newly acquired boots. “Ah, so she’s a spunky one.” His eyebrows raise fractionally, and then he lifts his hands, signs, mute, dove?
Jack of many trades, this one.
Fine then, he can talk nice, she grouses to herself. But can he run? She tenses, eyes flicking from the man’s jovial features (his grin crinkles the corners of his eyes, she realizes, and remembers with a pang how her father’s used to do the same) to the closed door, mentally measuring the distance and calculating the probability of being able to escape. It’s not a very high percentage count.
“You wouldn’t be wanting to go out there right now.” He’s watching her closely, and something in his tone - a sincere warning - halts her intended mad dash.
Ariadne looks away from his face then, takes in his worn green army jacket over the thin black shirt paired with muddy work boots, the three-day scruff along his cheeks, and suddenly she knows, she knows, and the anger bubbles up within her, boiling hot. This man is a member of the so-called resistance, ghosts and shadows hiding in the woods and building up an army to fight Fischer Industries, a la Robin Hood and his band of Merry Men (although lately, there’s no cause for anyone to be merry anymore).
And here he is, looting and stealing from people in need, like any other petty thief?
You- She’s so angry that her fingers are shaking. You’re a member of the resistance. Aren’t you. Aren’t you?! Her hands fly fast and furious, accusing.
And he smirks. “Smart girl. So you’ve heard of us, then? Hmm…” he studies her for a moment, her indignant scowl, her clenched jaw. “Not a fan?”
You son of a bitch. There are people here who need what you’re taking!
The sudden change in the man’s expression is swift and frightening; his eyes grow cold in an instant, his demeanor flips. “Ah, so, yet another one of Fishcer’s adoring crowd.”
He sounds disappointed for some reason, and Ariadne feels like ripping her hair out. Demanding that other people not put words in her mouth was so much easier when she could actually speak. And how dare he, how dare he suggest such a thing?
I wouldn’t adore that little fucker if you-
Above her head (way above her head) a window shatters, and a bullet embeds itself in a wooden shelf.
The next thing she knows, Ariadne’s nose makes a very fond acquaintance with the floor. The man’s practically lying on top of her and her panic tastes like the acid of bile rising up in her throat, choking around the voiceless scream she can’t utter; she lifts her fists to beat at him, but he grabs both of them in one large hand, and hisses, “Quiet, keep quiet, and stay out of sight.”
She does as he says, shrinking back into the surrounding heaps of cellophane and bubble wrap, willing herself to become invisible as well as mute, fear coating the back of her throat with sandpaper as the man draws a gun (a huge, silver beauty of a Beretta 92FS Brigadier - yeah, she knows about guns; unladylike, but so what?) from the holster strapped to his thigh, movements practiced and quick. A drop of rainwater falls from his hair and slips down his forehead, following the path of the scar all the way across his face.
BANG.
The door slams open, revealing Ratface and an AK-47. “You,” he sneers, and clomps into the storehouse, boots caked up to the ankle in mud. “So, the infamous Eames himself.” He cackles. “Oh, I’ve got you now.”
Eames? Ariadne’s eyes grow wide. This is the leader of the resistance? This scruffy, silver-tongued charmer who’s not even American? Oh, she’s heard of him all right, and she doesn’t know what she was expecting, but certainly not…this.
“Have you?”
The Beretta is nowhere to be seen and Eames sounds calm, far too calm for someone staring down the barrel of a semi-automatic. So, not only is he a thief, but he’s apparently stupid or suicidal too. Just great. Ariadne tries to push further back into her meager cover and the cellophane crinkles, catching Ratface’s attention; the guard keeps his weapon trained on the newly identified resistance leader and cranes his neck, peering into the darkness. “Got a little accomplice with you?” he asks with a contemptuous curl of his lip, immensely proud of snagging two birds with one stone. “Get out of there!”
The soldier’s face falls almost comically at the sight of Ariadne shuffling out of the shadows, hands lifted up high on either side of her head and he grunts, jerking his head toward the door, obviously an unspoken command to get out, as if a mute young woman isn’t worthy of attention or words.
As she slowly steps past the two men, Ariadne halfway expects to be grabbed by the resistance leader and used as a hostage, or literally seized by the scruff of the neck and kicked outside, gathering by the way Ratface glares at her. “Keep moving,” he snarls as she stoops to retrieve her fallen notebook, and she glares back with equal ferocity.
Oh, bite me, you bastard.
“Leave the girl alone,” Eames says suddenly, and his tone is suddenly all steel and quiet command; it’s an order that brokers no argument, a directive coming from the mouth of a man who’s known both servitude and leadership and obviously has no problem slipping into either role as easily as one might shrug on a jacket. “Let her get her diary and then be out of this, yeah?”
“Shut up.” The barrel of the AK-47 shifts ever so slightly; Ratface’s eye twitches, and he looks ready to burst a blood vessel at being told what to do by his apparent captive.
Ariadne’s not sure why she does it. Upon many an occasion in the future, when she looks back on this moment, she’s still not entirely sure why she looks into the face that she doesn’t even know but trusts, the scarred countenance of a man already touched by a war never even his, a foreigner stranded on foreign soil and fighting for a people to whom he owes no claim - and makes the decision that changes absolutely everything.
Eames’s eyes widen and he starts to shake his head no, but Ariadne’s never been good at following directions. Her lips press into a thin, hard line as she takes in Ratface’s stance - feet planted shoulder width apart - and, raising her right foot, she kicks him square in the family jewels with the toe of her new, sturdy boot.
Say what you will about her small stature, but Ariadne played soccer for twelve years straight and that, combined with the amazing ability inherent in all women to really do some damage when necessary, brings about the desired result.
Ratface lets out the highest pitched shriek Ariadne has ever heard, howling out something that sounds like a cross between the yowl of a wet alley cat and the cry of a wounded animal. His finger inadvertently depresses the trigger of his gun and the AK-47 spits lead in a wide arc high into the storehouse ceiling; his face, contorted with pain, meets the butt of Eames’s Beretta and he drops like a stone.
For a moment they just stare at each other, man and young woman, resistance leader and not-so-innocent bystander, blue-grey eyes meeting brown. It stretches on for ages until he speaks, sounding impressed. “Well, that was easier than I expected.”
“Eames?”
The door to the storehouse bangs open again, admitting a horde of people - Eames’s people, obviously - a motley crew of men and women of disparate ages and ethnicities flocking toward the shelves. Ariadne sees a middle aged black man carefully sweeping rolls of bandages and bottles of ibuprofen into a satchel marked with a red cross; a whippet-thin elderly Asian woman lifts what looks like five times her weight in crates of canned goods with practiced ease; a tall, strapping blonde underwear model look-alike strides past with two barrels of gasoline under each arm. A middle-aged man with piercing blue eyes and a world-weary face breaks away from the rest of the group and makes his way over, where Eames is still looking Ariadne over like a particularly interesting specimen he can’t quite figure out, and Ariadne is trying her best not to squirm under the scrutiny.
“Who’s this?” he asks bluntly, inclining his head toward her. Ariadne can’t help but fidget just a bit under his stare, because it’s one of great intensity and little to no amity, as if he’s gotten his fair share of hardships from life and hesitates to ever trust easily again.
Eames finishes giving her a once-over and catches her eye, winking. “My new pet.”
The other man is clearly not amused, and Ariadne is right there along with him. “Eames.” His tone is long-suffering, as if he’s used to dealing with childish behavior.
“What?” Eames shrugs. “Haven’t gotten around to picking out a name for the little dove yet though, so-”
Ariadne’s script is large and loopy, leaning to one side in her haste to scribble the words down. My name is ARIADNE. I’m not a dove, and I’m not your pet.
Eames’s grin widens, and he opens his mouth for what promises to be a clever comeback, and is drowned out by the sound of a rumble in the distance, more shouts of an increasingly frantic nature reaching the ears of everyone gathered inside the storehouse, as well as the static of an order shouted through a two-way radio: “-shoot on sight, I repeat, shoot on sight!”
Reinforcements.
What happens next is controlled chaos. The resistance members start heading out the door in a steady, continuous stream, drawing weapons of all different styles and sizes, carefully hefting their stolen goods up over their shoulders. The blue-eyed man gives Eames what can only be described as a Look with a capital ‘L,’ tipping his head in Ariadne’s direction before turning on his heel and following the crowd.
Eames chuckles again, stoops slightly, and picks Ariadne clean off her feet, heading toward the exit with his own stolen good slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
Carefully clutching the man’s broad shoulders with one hand and her notebook in the other, Ariadne mentally composes another journal entry in her mind: Scratch that bit about being bored. I think things just got a whole hell of a lot more interesting.
* - * - *
“Hai?”
A brief pause, then, in a hushed whisper - “It’s me.”
“Ah, Captain.” From the background comes the din of what sounds like a rambunctious dinner party until the speaker peels away from the congregation, presumably stepping into the adjacent quieter room. “To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?”
“Check your secure network. I sent the files over this morning.”
The speaker sounds both pleasant and pleased, but not at all surprised at the news. “Of course. Ahead of schedule, as always. You are a most diligent man, Mr. Davidson.”
“I’m a busy man. What do you want next?”
“Rumor is that Fischer Industries USA is expecting an entire shipment of arms from South Africa next month. Details on the parcel’s intended route would be much appreciated.”
“Done.”
- - - - -
Well. Robert sits back and gazes blankly at his desk blotter, unsure of what to do with himself, given that he has nothing to do. The Captain had arrived about an hour ago, as straight-backed and poised as ever, quietly accepting the largest stack of files on the corner of the desk and turning smoothly on his heel, leaving Robert to stare speechlessly at his departing back and the tiny folds in the back of his uniform that appeared as he shifted the files in his lean arms.
Captain Arthur Lawrence Davidson.
The man doesn’t sleep. Robert’s sure of it.
Either that, or he has to have some extra hours of the day hidden away somewhere; how else is it possible for him to get done with as much work as he does? The sheer number of files, scouting reports, and other lengthy notices he ploughs through with the greatest of ease compared to what Robert manages to complete in the same amount of time would be embarrassing if it wasn’t so admirable. For the first time in what seems like forever, Robert finds that he can actually see the smooth wooden surface of his desk, now divested of the piles upon piles of paperwork that would’ve driven even the most seasoned insurance agent to a mental breakdown.
A pile of completed files sits neatly stacked to his left (all of the pages lying one on top of another in perfect alignment, arranged in what looks like an exact ninety-degree angle to the desk’s corner. Robert’s tempted to get out a protractor and measure it down to the last degree.), but he’s long ago given up looking over the Captain’s reports; there are never any mistakes to be found anyway.
Pushing away from his desk, Robert crosses the length of the spacious office and stands in the doorway, squinting along the dimly lit hallway disappearing into the dark corridors. There’s no one to be seen of course; he doesn’t know why he checks every time, very much like a child casting nervous glances both ways before crossing a street, before he dares to venture out of his lonely but safe haven and out into the real world. It’s as if he’s unconsciously asking the permission of an absent mother, an emotionally and physically distant father, a godfather whom he never sees unless something’s gone wrong - and asking permission for what? To reveal himself to the world in all his insignificant inadequacy? To exist?
Shaking his head, Robert slips quietly out of the workspace, casually slipping his hands in his pockets and walking slowly to the large wall of windows on the other side of the hallway, pane after pane of tinted and bulletproof glass, opaque and not only shutting Fischer Industries’ secrets and security in, but simultaneously keeping everything and everyone else out - a prison and a citadel all in one.
He closes his eyes, leaning his forehead against the smooth glass that shields his sight from the horrors and depravity of the tragic remains of what used to be America the Beautiful, but even while momentarily blinded, Robert can still see him, a lean frame bespeaking hidden strength and agility, a powerful presence he doesn’t know how to banish from his mind.
Captain Arthur Lawrence Davidson.
Robert’s always ever had to clean up his own messes. He doesn’t have a team of lawyers or a media liaison on speed dial ready to do damage control, he learned as a child where to find the broom and dustpan when the lamp falls and shatters into a thousand pieces on the marble floor, where to find the Elmer’s glue, how to take the consequences without a word when what’s broken can’t ever be fixed with childish hope and faith. As a result, he was an incredibly cautious child, an equally vigilant and reticent adolescent, and now, is a man who knows how to analyze a situation before not so much jumping in headfirst as standing on the riverbank and dipping one foot in. He knows right from wrong like he knows his own name, and how to choose the straight and narrow path in the elevator rides and paces from his bedroom to office, from office to conference room, from conference room to dining room, from dining room to bedroom. He knows how to stay out of trouble, how to push his own wants and needs into the back of his mind for the sake of the greater good before they begin to manifest as words or even thoughts. He knows how to deny himself everything and anything, knows how to just stop expecting a better day to come, a better life to arrive. He knows and just simply does.
But this?
Robert bends the fingers of his left hand in toward his palm and remembers the feel of skin against skin against cold linoleum floor and stiff paper, remembers the brush of fingers against the inside of his wrist that sent his pulse racing, remembers touch and the name to go with the face of silent majesty and impassive dignity. Oh and this is wrong, wrong because the Captain is a man and an employee to boot. Off limits. Robert’s knows the limits; he can recite them backwards and forwards and in his sleep. It’s so terribly wrong and although he knows it, Robert doesn’t know how to stop.
Captain Davidson is more than Robert can describe or ever possibly hope to understand; he’s captivating and emotionally reserved, solid and safe, an intrigue to watch from afar and-
-and walking down the hallway, straight towards him.
Robert falters. There’s nowhere to hide here; Fischer Industries is all transparent glass on the inside and opaque barriers on the outside, and so he freezes, holding his breath as the Captain approaches silently, a stealthy form of light and dark that surprisingly, doesn’t disappear as he steps into the meager light spilling out of the office, leather-gloved hands a terrifying and stark contrast against the pale manila of the dossier he sets on Robert’s desk.
Suddenly then, he stills.
In the background, the soft music spilling from the horn of the old antique gramophone (Uncle Peter thought it added a touch of class in the otherwise woefully empty room and Robert, as always, said nothing to the contrary) swells, trembling notes that had been barely audible over the ever-present hum of the main power generators dispensing electricity throughout the entire building now striking the air with power and majesty, the bows of violins long ago destroyed sliding against strings that no longer exist and making them sing, dance, shatter.
Robert waits a beat, and then another. He inches closer, eyes narrowing at where the other man stands directly on the line between lit office and dark hallway, handsome profile on display and bathed in the soft glow of the office light. The Captain’s eyes are, for once, soft; unguarded and speaking - hell, screaming - a thousand different things in a thousand different languages, none of which Robert can even begin to decipher. In that one instant, the music strips away the all the mystery; the sense of near divinity surrounding Arthur Davidson disappears as he closes his eyes, eyelashes dark against pale skin and a tear slips down one smooth cheek, as the corner of his lips twitch upwards fractionally.
He’s beautiful.
The music undoes the Captain, makes him less than a god but even more to Robert in that way, because now he’s just a man. He’s flesh and blood and bone, real and touchable. And so touch Robert does, a gentle hand upon the Captain’s shoulder -
-then he’s pinned flat against the wall of his office, breath stripped from his lungs and with an arm pressed against his trachea, staring into Captain Davidson’s eyes, and what Robert sees there (longing, loneliness, loss) breaks his heart.
“Captain?”
“Mr. Fischer.” Captain Davidson blinks; the muscles in his forearm flex against Robert’s throat and then he steps away gracefully, taking in a deep breath. “My apologies; you startled me.”
Robert can only wave the apology off, inwardly marveling at the other man’s strength and speed, still staring, wanting to memorize the last remnants of the Captain’s open expression, so haunted and stunning and honest, replay it over and over in his mind like a broken reel of film. “I’m guessing you haven’t heard music in a while, Captain?”
A simple nod. “Far too long.” Captain Davidson tilts his head back and his eyes go distant, gazing inwards and back into a past Robert doesn’t know and can’t possibly imagine. “L’Estro Armonico, Opus Three, Concerto number eight in A minor for two violins and strings.” His voice is a soft twist of velvet in the dark, words weighed down with unknown meaning; Robert very nearly shivers, but keeps himself still. “It’s always been a personal favorite.”
It’s wrong, wrong, wrong but Robert wants to be selfish, wants to see more, simply wants so much that his lips part on their own accord: “Then please, stay.”
“I’m afraid I can’t.” The Captain steps back, inclining his head in a respectful nod. “Good night, Mr. Fischer.”
Robert watches him go, music swelling to a crescendo and then dwindling into a whisper of bow against strings.
- - - - -
That night, when Robert sleeps, he dreams of strings clashing and battling each other, screaming out notes of desire and despair; he dreams and dreams and dreams of dying and nothing at all.
* - * - *
Part 2