Bohemian Rhapsody, Part I
Title: Bohemian Rhapsody, Part I
Fandom: Inception
Rating: NC-17, just to be safe.
Characters: Arthur, Cobb, Eames, Mal
Summary: Done for inception_kink prompt. Inception x Kurohitsuji. Cobb is the best extractor in the world. Arthur is the best at what he does, working for Cobb as his demonic point man and bound to devour Cobb’s soul by a contract. Mild A/C.
-
Cobb sometimes finds himself tracing it; this pentacle burned into the underside of his left wrist, above the beating pulse point. More often than not, he hides it beneath the smooth cloth of a long sleeve and says nothing about where he got it from.
Mal never asked. Instead, she kisses it, tenderly, sometimes running her fingers along its bold lines in the same way Cobb finds himself doing. Eames (who was curious the first time he saw it), now dismisses it as a tattoo, and a remnant of youthful fascination with the occult. But Arthur? Arthur knew then, and knows, even now. He pressed his fingers against Cobb’s wrist, burned the pentacle just above the gentle heartbeat, dark eyes watching dispassionately as the pentacle burned itself into his own wrist.
-
“He’s definitely a stick-in-the-mud.” Eames decided, his fingers interlocked.
Cobb took a sip of beer and pretended he didn’t know what Eames was talking about. “Arthur?”
“Of course I mean Arthur.” Eames said matter-of-factly. He blinked, staring at Cobb. “Were you even paying attention?”
“I probably missed some things.” Cobb told him. His sleeve slipped back as he set down his glass; for a moment, Eames’ eyes flicked to the pale pentacle on the scarred wrist.
“When did you get that, again? I think Arthur has the same tattoo. In the same place too, would you believe it?”
Cobb shrugged casually. “Oh, around.” He said, vaguely, pulling his sleeve back over the mark, covering it from sight. “What is with you and Arthur?” He asked, changing them topic immediately. “You’ve always been complaining about him.”
“He’s just so bloody annoying.” Eames grumbled. “Too stiff for his own good and he won’t even let you have a bit of a tease.”
Cobb narrowed his eyes, almost smiling. “You tried forging him, didn’t you?”
“You knew it wasn’t going to work.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You knew,” Eames grumbled, “And you encouraged me anyway. ‘Why not, Eames?’ You said, with a nasty grin on your face. ‘Go on, Eames.’ Have fun. Knock yourself out while you’re at it, and bring that nasty point man of yours with you.”
“I don’t see why it so disturbed you.”
“Because he’s so bloody difficult to forge!” Eames’ voice rose, despite his efforts to keep it low. “You didn’t get fooled. He walks in as cool as a cucumber, stares at me, and then presses his gun to my head and tells me I’m dead if I don’t change back. Where are the normal reactions?”
“Eames, I told you Arthur is impossible to forge - almost impossible.” Cobb corrected himself.
“No.” Eames decided. He frowned at his glass. “Not impossible.” He looked up at Cobb, the traces of a mischievous grin playing around his lips. “Just bloody difficult.”
“Go ahead.” Cobb told him, not even bothering to hide his smirk. “Knock yourself out. I don’t think Arthur will approve.”
“I don’t think Arthur will approve of what?” The aforementioned person said, stalking in with a distinctly displeased air. “Where were you?” He demanded, staring icily at Eames. “The mark is on the move. You were supposed to be here at least twenty minutes ago.”
“Oh, relax, Arthur.” Eames said flippantly. “There’s plenty of time.” As if to make his point clear, he took a leisurely sip from his glass, watching Arthur all the time to gauge how much infuriation he caused.
The problem, Cobb decided, was that Arthur didn’t quite rise up to Eames’ taunting, and Eames hated enigmas. Having settled on the idea that he must rile up Arthur, Eames fixated on every taunt possible to achieve his desired effect. That was the problem when it came to working with Eames - his last point man, Josh, had given up for precisely that reason.
“Be there.” Arthur said, in a tone that left no room for argument. He glanced at Cobb for confirmation. “I’m off.”
“Would it kill him to be a bit more nice?” Eames demanded, as soon as Arthur was out of earshot.
“Play nice.” Cobb said, disinterested, counting down the seconds in his head.
At once, almost perfectly on time, heads turned, all across the pub, as the sound of gunfire burst out. It was coming from the outside. Eames chanced a glimpse out of the window and his eyes widened. Eames never cursed. So when he hissed something sharp and undefinable, it was still progress. “What does he think he’s doing?” He hissed, pointing at what was going on outside.
“Distracting the projections. Washroom.” Cobb snapped, grabbing Eames by the arm and pulling him away from the window. “No time for this.”
They burst out of their seats at once, heading for the toilets. In the flurry of motion, they went by almost unnoticed. Arthur was keeping them busy in the crudest way possible; a shooting spree right in the open streets, drawing the army of projections towards him and away from the mark, who was on the second level of the large pub. The last thing Cobb saw of him was Arthur diving behind a dumpster for cover before he tore his eyes away and kept to the issue of hustling Eames into character.
“He’s not Arnold bloody Schwarzenegger.” Eames continued, as they hurried into the gents and Cobb shut the door behind them.
“Eames, he knows his job. Now shut up and change.”
It took only a moment; Eames glanced in the mirror, features blurring. In a moment, Cobb stood next to the mark’s trusted bodyguard, although the reflection remained the same.
“Let’s go.” Eames said curtly. When he forged an identity, he got into character - every detail of it. That was exactly what made him such a masterful forger.
-
The job was a success.
Contrary to Eames’ expectations, Arthur had actually survived distracting the projections, Eames had wheedled the safe code out of the mark, and the mark’s wife could do - well, whatever she wanted to with the number combination. They were paid well enough to not care.
“I don’t care.” Eames said, when he first opened his eyes, just after the kick had been delivered. “It’s positively unholy. No one ever deals with a group of projections like that. Not for what, fifteen minutes?”
Cobb opened his eyes - Arthur was already sitting up and pulling the IV out of his arm. Both of them ignored Eames.
Arthur never inserted the IV into his left wrist, for the same reason Cobb never did. He collected the IVs, neatly coiling the lines and packing everything with neat, practiced efficiency into the PASIV. At the same time, he crouched by the limp form of the mark, pressing his fingers against the mark’s wrist to check for the pulse, just to be thorough.
“Still there. He’ll be out of it for a while.”
Cobb nodded. “Let’s move then. Eames?”
Eames groaned and stretched out his stiff limbs. “Coming.”
They got out of the hotel room quickly, and Arthur glanced swiftly around the room to make sure nothing was left before closing the door. There would be no tell-tale signs except for the smallest of puncture marks, and an illict keycard which would not turn up in their luggage.
“Eames?” Cobb said, once they were a safe distance away, his voice hushed. Hotel corridors were never the safest place for conversations.
“Hmm?”
“Arthur’s the best at what he does for a reason.” Cobb said simply, and left him to it.
-
Cobb almost reached for his Beretta when the rap came on the door, but then checked himself and peeked through the peephole before opening it. Arthur waited, bag slung over his shoulder. He was probably hiding at least two semi-automatics in that coat of his. Cobb knew that from experience. “Our ride’s at the lobby.” He said.
Eames folded his arms, waiting. “You take a long time.” He said, smiling cheerfully. “It seems I’m not the only one late around here.”
“Thank you for your contribution, Eames.” Arthur told him, in a tone that made it quite clear he was not being particularly thankful.
“I’m always glad to be appreciated, Arthur.” Eames said brightly.
Cobb ducked back into his hotel room, grabbed his own bag, tucked his weapon into the inner pocket of his jacket, and joined them in the corridor. “Any activity?” He asked.
“None.”
“Good.”
They walked in silence for a few moments, unhurried. The job wasn’t done until they sent the information in and made a clean getaway. Cobb held open the lift for the two of them, and then hit the lobby button. The lift doors opened at the main lobby, before someone spoke up.
“Where are you headed?” Eames asked.
“New Delhi.” Cobb said, with a shrug. “See if I can sniff out a job while I’m at it. You?”
“Mombasa.” Eames smirked. “See how many people I can swindle while I’m at it. Drop by if you need a forger. And where are you going?” He asked, turning to Arthur. “Still attached to Cobb’s hip?”
“Stateside.” Arthur said curtly.
As they walked on, Eames tripped, bumped into Arthur, and corrected his path immediately. “Oh, sorry.” He said cheerfully. “Accident.” Arthur shot him a glance but studiously went on ignoring him.
Cobb wondered how long it would take before Arthur realised his wallet had been pickpocketed. It turned out it took Arthur only until the end of their ride to the airport. The look of smug superiority that Eames had been wearing all the way there was immediately, abruptly, and prematurely cut off.
Cobb smirked as he left Arthur and Eames to it, and headed for the check-in counter first, only pausing to whisper in Eames’ ear, “You were right.” Eames was too preoccupied to even bother with a glare.
-
How Cobb and Arthur first met is, perhaps, a story worth telling in its own right. Teaching people to defend their subconscious from intrusion demands a skill in said intrusion; there are only extractors and extractors - those who take legit jobs and those who work in legal grey areas. (Cobb used to belong to the former).
Often, even legitimate clients had a tendency to get uncomfortable with the idea of someone (Cobb) rifling around in their mind in order to teach them how to defend said mind. On the other hand, there were fellow corporations more than perfectly willing to pry those precious secrets from extractors through various means. Even the process of militarising someone’s subconscious often meant that Cobb was still privy to the vast amount of dirty laundry (sometimes literally - Mal was laughing as she pulled a soiled piece of underwear away from where it had stuck to his shoulder) that clients carried with them.
In particular, the CEO of Thann Holdings was a particularly ruthless woman. It didn’t take long after Cobb’s contract with the chief engineer of Coburn Engineering had expired for her to set her sights on him. Access to a single extractor was, after all, easier than access to the highly placed Stuart Everett.
-
Cobb had come to the conclusion he needed a point man. He doubled as architect and extractor, now that Mal was pregnant. (The effects of somnacin on an unborn child were, as of yet, uncharted, and neither of them wanted to take a risk when it came to the health of their child.)
It worked well the first two times, but he faced increasing difficulty as the mind militarised. Shaking off at least fifteen projections on his tail was problematic, and materialising a wall between him and the projections was a trick that worked only once before he properly alerted the subject’s projections to his presence. After he was shot for the fifth time running and thrown abruptly out of his client’s dream, Cobb decided to call it a day.
Josh was a decent point man, but not reliable by any stretch of the imagination, and Cobb needed a point man who could actually be there for most of the jobs. He didn’t want decent - he wanted better than decent.
Placing the advertisement in the right channels wasn’t the tricky part. It was sorting through the applicants he got that was the problem. Mal did the paperwork; she teased that if he was the one to look through the papers, he’d never end up with his point man. Cobb had to admit she was right about how exacting he could be. Most extractors worked (however) by recommendation, but recommendation had got him Josh. He needed someone else.
He stuck his hands in his pocket, counting off the house numbers along the street as he went on to make sure he was going to the right place. This new prospect was supposed to be good. Cobb wasn’t sure how good.
It turned out that number seventeen had to be accessed through a back street. As Cobb turned around the corner and cut through an alley, he thought he heard a clatter behind him and turned instinctively. That was the abrupt moment a hand and a cloth clamped right over the front of his face. Cobb turned and pivoted, trying to toss his attacker with one of the stamp-throw-swings that had been painstakingly ingrained into him.
But his muscles had already begun to betray him, and he struggled futilely against the covering cloth. The world was beginning to blur. Goddamn sedative, he thought.
He collapsed.
-
Interrogation seeks to disorient the target, to lower his defenses, and to get him to capitulate, to reveal whatever it is the interrogator is searching for. Time is dynamic, senseless, and meaningless - there are no clocks, Cobb has no watch, and bound with his hands behind his back, he is absolutely helpless.
This lack of any sense of time makes yesterdaytodaytomorrow blend in together seamlessly; he doesn’t know how long he’s been here. (Part of him doesn’t care.) There are moments, defined by pain, and questions, and a strict refusal to answer (client confidentiality, client confidentiality, he thinks. Screw this up, Dom, and you’ll never get another client again.)
(In retrospect, Cobb would say that he doesn’t remember specifics; only a blurred haze, exactly like a fever-dream. And the Moment, of course.)
There are the deaths, of course, several of them stacked up, with another ampoule of somnacin injected into him the moment he wakes up. He can’t feel his totem, he isn’t sure whether he’s dreaming waking up or he’s waking up from dreaming to be put under again. Finally, he hears murmurs about your pregnant wife, child, answer, need to know, or else -
When he hears her voice, her screams, he cries out in a weak, wordless fury, tearing at his restraints with renewed energy. They don’t give. They bite viciously into his skin. He can’t remember why he’s resisting, or what for, only a vague notion he can’t. Godamn bastards, godamn bastards, he thinks furious, in a fog of fear, pain and anger, panting and tugging endlessly at his bonds. He doesn’t even succeed in kicking the chair over, for all the good that might do.
Dehydrated, feverish, he sees her dragged in, a mass of oozing blood and flesh where she has been repeatedly beaten. You know what you must do. You know the only thing you have to do.
At some point, he isn’t sure who is saying the words anymore.
A contract, Dominic Cobb. A bargain for a bargain. A person for a person.
Mal screams.
The man smiles. Cobb wonders if he’s hallucinating this figure; black hair slicked back, eyes dark brown, with a gleam of red, pale, immaculately groomed. A stark contrast to the room slick with grime and some blood.
A bargain. That’s all you have to do. A bargain. A contract.
Mal screams, in his mind, Cobb sees them beating her, attaching wires to her, electrocuting her, torturing her - all for a few secrets he can’t spill. In his state, he’s not even sure if he remembers them. They’re sick.
The man bends over to whisper into his ear. A bargain, he whispers. His breath tickles Cobb’s skin lightly. What you really want, for what I want. Your soul.
Some hallucination, Cobb thinks vaguely. What would you do for Mal? He asks himself. The answer, with a cry of pain, is almost too obvious.
Yes, he says, wondering if it’s aloud. And then he swallows, and manages, through cracked, swollen, and bloodied lips. “Yes.”
A frosty smile; cold, mirthless, devoid, numbing. The dark promise, sealed by white teeth against the skin of his wrist, a soft kiss, and the fingers that brand the pentacle into his wrist. Cobb resists the pain, gritting his teeth, flopping against his restraints. He has no energy to scream. The man, on the other hand, watches dispassionately as the pentacle sears itself into his own flesh. Neither of them make any sound, and then it is done. Cobb sags against the restraints, limp with relief.
“What the fuck is that?” Cobb manages to growl out.
“Proof of our contract.” At the same moment, the ropes binding Cobb separate - Cobb stares as they get torn apart. He starts rubbing his hands furiously, nevermind that they’re raw and filthy and crusted with dried blood where his bonds chafed. They’re numb, and he needs to stand, to get out of here fast, and where is his totem?
At that moment, the door bursts open, just as Cobb takes a tentative, shaky step. “No, you don’t, Mr Cobb.” Cobb only remembers the leader for what he has done, trying to pry the various passcodes for Thann Holdings from Cobb’s mind, and how a single short man in a grey suit can be so sadistic and cruel.
Five guns point at them. Cobb’s companion steps forward, slow and unhurried.
“Boss?” One of the flunkies call out nervously. “What is he - “
“Kill him.” Short says. “No witnesses.”
Cobb hears them fire - again, again and again. Bullets clatter to the ground; they stop as suddenly as they start. The man is smiling, still with no real warmth, as he holds the last bullet between his fingers, inspecting it.
“Much faster.” He says approvingly. He drops it, without so much as a burn on his fingers. The abductors at the door back away. Short puts his gun to his head and fires - and then the world begins to dissolve.
A dream, Cobb realises, as comprehension dawns. It’s a dream. He reaches reflexively for the totem -
And doesn’t find it, as his eyes snap open. He’s bound here too, and his abductors are all waking up slowly and armed. The incriminating IV is still sticking into his right arm, still connected to the PASIV kit.
Except his companion is here too. Before any of them can get free, he moves swiftly. His hands flex as he snaps necks with a ease and sureness that is unnerving. And then it is over, almost as suddenly as it began, with little of a struggle.
Cobb gasps in relief; the pain, the weariness - all of it vanished in a single instant. It happened in the dream, not in this world, if this isn’t a dream. The first thing he does when freed is to reach for his totem to check, turning his back slightly towards his rescuer as he did so.
In that moment, he saw it. A pentacle, in red, livid lines, burned into his left wrist. Wounds don’t follow you out of the dream, he thinks, and checks his totem. And again. Reality, the totem says.
Cobb scrubs his eyes with the back of his hand, and professional instincts take over. “We need to get out of here. Fast.” He says aloud.
His companion gives him a sharp nod, and follows, as Cobb leads the way, legs shaky at first from disuse. There isn’t time to stretch. He needs to put distance between himself and - and that place.
(And did they even know about Mal?)
-
A quick phone call determined he’d been missing for two and three quarters of a day. Mal answered the phone, sleepless, worried, and relieved at the same time. No, she didn’t know he had been taken. Yes, she was going to call the police, and would have if he hadn’t contacted her. No, nothing had happened to her.
“Do you have a name?” He asked. Cobb rubbed the pentacle again. The furious red marks were fading. Now it was a pale scar, faint white against his skin. (Do demons even drink coffee?) The demon stared at him, watching him, ignoring the coffee with an expectant air.
A flicker of movement was his response. The demon didn’t lose his poise. “No.” He answered, immediately. “Do you intend to call me by one?”
Cobb resisted the tempation to check his totem. He’d done so half-a-dozen times before. This couldn’t be real. But it was just as evident the man sitting across him, ignoring his coffee was not really a man. And he wasn’t a projection either. It was clear, though, that there was something inhuman about his companion. Perhaps it was the unearthly calm and stillness the demon projected. Perhaps it was Cobb’s intuition, or the way the demon just could not project any sense of emotional warmth.
Maybe it was in how pale he was, how unnaturally stiff the way he held himself was. Cobb didn’t know. Perhaps he was just imagining it.
“I can’t just give you a name like that,” He said, exasperated. “Look, you’re not - a slave. Or a pet.” The demon was impassive; Cobb couldn’t even see a flicker of annoyance.
“By the terms of the contract, Master Cobb, you command my obedience for so long as the contract lasts. After which,” Teeth flashed in a chilling smile, “I devour your soul.” Cobb’s fingers snapped, as if drawn, to the brand which burned for a moment, hot against his fingers, as if the demon’s touch still lingered. “A name,” The demon whispered, “Is the least of things.”
“Fine,” Cobb almost snapped, casting about for a name to turn the topic back to things that were less grim. “Arthur,” He said at last.
Arthur nodded. He never asked why.
“What are you going to do?”
Arthur’s expression was blandly neutral. Perhaps there was slightly condescending quality to it, almost mocking. Cobb wasn’t sure. He couldn’t read the - Arthur, he reminded himself, hoping his father wasn’t turning over in his grave for the use of his name. “Exactly as you order.”
“I can’t order you to leave?”
“Not without breaking the contract.” Arthur paused, staring at Cobb. His eyes smoke with darkness and hellfire and brimstone. Demon, Cobb’s mind chants. Demon. “Do you order me to do so?” His smile was almost taunting. It was as if humanity was an act long thrown aside in some dusty corner - and in hastily reviving it and assuming the role, Arthur had discovered he was quite rusty, and the costume was two sizes too small. His calm, his sharp, bitter smiles, his posture - all of them had an edge to them that wasn’t real.
“No.” Cobb said, instantly. Not an option. He wondered why he spoke the first name that came to his mind; knowing, in that moment, he would never name his son (if he had a son) Arthur. Arthur was a name that was a human mask cracked and flaking off, a pair of eyes a deep brown with a hint of maroon (one could drown in those eyes, choke and die), bared white teeth, burning fingers, and a pale pentacle. Arthur was a name, dark with implication. Cobb’s hands slid into his pockets (just a little filthy by now), hiding the pentacle. “I need a point man,” He said, considering the idea. Perhaps - just perhaps, Arthur could be trained to be a point man. “Someone to know the subject, to be thorough about research. Someone to watch my back.”
“Is that an order, Master Cobb?”
Cobb’s breath whistled though his clenched teeth as he exhaled heavily. “Don’t call me that.” He snapped instantly. “Cobb, or Mr Cobb, if you must. And yes, that is an order.”
“Yes, Mr Cobb.” Arthur said, calmly. Cobb resisted the urge to test his totem yet again.
“Are you going to touch that coffee?” He asked, instead.
Arthur drank it wordlessly, and his eyebrows knitted together for a moment. (Was it mild surprise?) “Interesting,” He said. Cobb had to be content with that.
-
The first thing Cobb did when he got home was to pull Mal in a tight hug and kiss her, hand fingering his totem. This is real, he reminded himself. He didn’t need the totem to tell him.
“I was worried,” She told him, after they separated. “There was nothing at all. Nothing.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Cobb said. “Someone took me. One of them was an extractor, almost definitely working for a rival client. He wanted to steal client secrets from me.”
“And who is this serious young man?” She asked, smiling as she turned to Arthur.
“This is Arthur,” Cobb introduced. “Arthur, this is Mal, my wife.” He told himself that if Arthur so much as harmed Mal, he would personally drag Arthur into a church and drown him in the baptismal font. “Arthur helped me to get away.”
They exchanged polite smiles and shook hands. Cobb watched sharply, but there seemed to be nothing wrong at all. Nothing, not even the faintest smell of sulphur seemed to arouse her suspicions. Any cracks in Arthur’s disguise had sealed up. Cobb could not help but wonder if it was because he knew what Arthur really was. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Mal saw stiff awkwardness, shyness, a withdrawn young man in a three-piece suit.
“You must be good,” Mal says, with a charming smile. “To free him, and for there to be no complaints. Cobb is seldom so impressed.”
“I’m good at what I do,” Arthur agreed smoothly. (He seldom blinks.) Cobb grudgingly admitted that if Arthur had any kind of decent fighting skills (which he did possess), then he was probably going to make a much more reliable point man than Josh was.
But the real proof, he knew, was in how Arthur fared when being instructed in the intricacies of dreams.
That was something Cobb couldn’t predict.
-
Arthur settled into the routine of the Cobb household in an easy way that Cobb found just a little unnerving. He has no problems helping with the chores; half the time, he does them absently, and Cobb wondered who Arthur had last bound himself to, and just what role he ended up filling.
When he asked aloud, Arthur smiled. “I do not speak of previous contracts, Mr Cobb. Unless you wish to order me?”
(This has been Arthur’s greatest source of delight; this sentence which he wields with the expertise of a champion fencer between them. He takes great delight in forcing Cobb to order him - and normally refuses to take the initiative. That Cobb hates most of all.
“Why do you wear three-piece suits?”
“Do you wish to order me to wear something else?” )
Cobb folded his arms across his chest. “No.” He said firmly. “I was just asking.”
Mal, on the other hand, lovely, kind, sweet Mal, had far more success in getting Arthur to open up. She went with Arthur to visit the gynaecologist for her regular check-up, and managed to coax him into pants, dress-shirts, and coats. (She still couldn’t make him relinquish ties entirely.)
The most Cobb ever got from Arthur was that he was last bound to a woman in the Victorian era. He wondered what happened (perhaps it explains the irrational fondness for three-piece suits) and wondered if Arthur had devoured her soul too when her contract had expired.
Getting any more information from Arthur, particularly on this topic, Cobb learned, was like pulling teeth. It took much hassle, and results weren’t always guaranteed.
-
Arthur picked up the basics of extraction and (the other side of the coin) anti-extraction with extraordinary speed. The first time as the subject when working with someone new was always nerve-wrecking - and Cobb figured that it was especially so when said someone was a demon.
Still, while Arthur learned various tricks of the trade and secrets, ways to learn secrets by engaging projections in conversation, by changing the world of the dream (creating vaults for subjects to place secrets within), he never talked directly to Cobb’s projections unless necessary. The secrets distilled were small ones, although Arthur stared at Cobb, silent for a while, his expression undecipherable when he learned Arthur was the name of Cobb’s now-deceased father.
(Thank you, he said, years later.)
Cobb’s projections automatically stared at Arthur on most occasions - as if they were a manifestation of Cobb’s subconscious discomfort.
Arthur glanced at Cobb; Cobb shrugged. “Remember,” He said, carefully. “They’re my subconscious. I can’t control what happens.”
That was the first time Arthur was the dreamer. They found themselves in what Cobb figured must be London, years and years ago, in fog and driving rain lashing at them. Cobb’s projections managed to ignore the miserable weather, bundled up like penguins, and to still stare at Arthur. Cobb pulled his soaked jacket tighter around himself, but it was still cold. “Is this a memory?” He hollered, as they made their progress slowly down the muddy street. Arthur shrugged and said nothing. Cobb grabbed him then, gripping his shoulders and turning him around - Arthur tensed up, but did not resist. Cobb hauled him closer. “Never build from memory!” He shouted, over the downpour. “It’s not safe! You could lose yourself that way!”
Startled, Arthur didn’t jerk free. Instead, his reply was a low, almost-confused murmur. “It’s possible?” He asked, frowning slightly. The rain plastered part of his hair in limp strands over his eyes; Arthur didn’t even brush them off, simply ignoring them.
“Yes!” Cobb retorted immediately. “Only use details - like a fire hydrant, a phone booth, a street lamp. Never recreate exactly from memory. It’s the fastest way to lose your grip on what’s real!” He was aware his grip on Arthur’s shoulder was white-knuckled, but his fingers were chilled and numb and he wasn’t sure if he was gripping tightly. “This is very important. You have to remember this.”
Arthur nodded sharply, frowning a little. The landscape did not change. By the time the timer ended and they were hauled out of the dream, Cobb realised something. Arthur couldn’t create (not that it mattered, given Cobb was a far more than competent architect.) But there were only a few things Arthur could build, even from memory. In that moment, Cobb felt a sharp sting of pity for the demon - before it rapidly passed. They had to fix this handicap, Cobb decided, and then broached the subject of totems with Arthur.
-
The first time Arthur was the subject, his projections behave entirely as expected, ignoring the two of them. Cobb caught glimpses of a woman in the crowd, fleeting, and each time Arthur saw her, he stiffened - Cobb said nothing. He took this chance to show Arthur dream architecture, creating mazes and wide airy skyscrapers - whole streets of them. Above was the sky; wide-open, birds wheeling overhead, calling to each other. A cream Siamese cat purred by one of the building entrances. Arthur kneeled and picked it up with a strange gentleness Cobb had not seen until then. He stroked it, his expression, for once, as open and unguarded as Cobb had ever seen.
“Beautiful,” He breathed. It was barely a whisper, but Cobb heard it. It was the most Cobb got out of Arthur as his point man studied every building, every window, every skyloft, cradling the cat absently. Cobb watched the projections file past and spoke to none of them, even when he caught sight of the woman once more (brown hair, with hazel eyes).
This, in some way, set the template for Arthur’s subsequent dreamscapes - all of them were grey worlds of steel, clear clean glass, light flooding everywhere. (And most times, a cream-colored Siamese cat curls about Arthur’s leg, or plays on the ground, somewhere, mewing.)
-
When Mal was around, Arthur did not relax - not in any perceivable fashion. Yet she charmed the occasional reluctant smile from him (edged with some kind of faint, puzzled warmth) and added a layer of muted, soft color to the harsh edges of Arthur’s character. Once, in an act of impulsive kindness, she hugged him (truth to be told, Mal loved to tease people, and Cobb was well used to it) and laughed because it was obvious Arthur had been taken aback by surprise.
Kindness came easily to Mal, and as if she sensed some especial need for it in Arthur, she gave it to him in many little ways, and small moments of appreciation. A ‘Thank you, Arthur,’ and a flash of her bright smile lit Arthur up, if only by a little. In those moments, Cobb couldn’t help but to look away, quickly.
(It isn’t jealousy. He trusts Mal too deeply to feel that way; he knows her too well. And because he knows her too well, he knows Mal is sweet, kind, compassionate, and caring, yet with a core of steel beneath the silk. It is because it is dangerous, to look at those few moments and to categorise Arthur as almost-human. Arthur is the deceptive flash beneath the water before the anaconda strikes.)
-
The first reversal came, late at night, when Mal gently held his hand over her swollen belly, and Cobb (with awe and stunned delight) thought he could feel a light flutter against his fingers. “So?” She asked him, head pillowed on his arm. He breathed in her fragrance, content - Mal always smelled just faintly of oranges and rosemary. Even in the dim lighting, he could see her smile, teasing and questioning. He took his hand off the cotton of her light nightdress to trace the contours of that smile with his fingers, softly and tenderly.
“A boy,” He said, in answer to her question.
“A girl,” She disagreed, capturing his free hand in hers. “Call it a woman’s intuition.” Neither of them had wanted to check from the ultrasound; they both agreed they would rather it remain a surprise.
“Ah,” He breathed quietly, smiling, “You will remind me never to argue with you.”
“As if.” She scoffed playfully. “And if he were a boy, what name would you give him?” It was something they kept talking about, unable to pick. Phillipa was easy; they’d agreed on Phillipa if the baby was a girl. It was a beautiful name, and after Mal’s grandmother. “Still Arthur?” She asked searchingly, squeezing his hand, studying his features.
For a moment, Cobb’s heart almost stopped. “No.” He said, almost immediately. “Not Arthur. Definitely not Arthur.”
She stared at him quizzically, raising both delicately arched eyebrows. “Why?” She asked, confused. “You wanted to give him your father’s name. Arthur would be honored, I think.”
I’ve changed my mind, he wanted to say, but Cobb didn’t like shutting Mal out, especially not completely. Because that was before this all happened, he wanted to say. Before Arthur was a demon, and my new point man, a pale thin man in a three-piece suit who fights like a wildcat. Instead, he said, kissing her lightly on the cheek, “I trust your intuition. Phillipa it will be.”
“And is Arthur making progress?” She asked.
“Decent.” Cobb replied, staring up at the ceiling, feeling her warmth, clinging to it like a totem. “But we’re not making too much progress with the kick. And he refuses to take any initiative at all.”
“Patience,” She advises, sighing as she pulls the blankets just a little higher. “You are too hard on him.”
“He’s doing it on purpose.” Cobb fumed. It wasn’t just gut instinct, it was the slight mocking trace on Arthur’s expression as he forced Cobb to order him that really irked Cobb. “I need a point man, not a slave.”
“Some people don’t like taking the initiative.” She pointed out, soberly. “Some wait. Some learn. Like a young man I met in Paris, so many years ago.”
Cobb took the bait, smiling. “He was terrified, you know,” He said, matter-of-factly. “Until you spoke to him. Then he knew.”
“What did he know?” She laughed, drawing closer. Cobb pushed all thoughts of Arthur out of his mind and held her, revelling in the close contact and the intimacy. They were all safe. He would make sure of it.
Later, (Mal sometimes continued conversations some time after they left off) she said, somewhat sleepily, “He’s reliable. He’s a little shy and prickly - he doesn’t want to let anybody in. But he’s very dedicated. He works himself at night with the PASIV. He follows your every move. And he tries to make himself useful, all around the house.”
Normally, Mal would be a good judge of character. Cobb just sighed and leaned back into the pillows. Would she still be right? Arthur wasn’t exactly a person. He was here because of a contract, nothing more. (Arthur has a soft spot for cats.) Mal was probably partly right, Cobb finally decided. It was true that Arthur was reliable - far more reliable than Josh had ever been. He met his lessons with a fierce dedication. He smiled, just a little, when Mal turned the charm on, and even when she didn’t. He made the best point man (and they haven’t even had a proper job yet!) that Cobb has worked with so far, meticulous and efficient.
Give him a chance, he told himself, or rather, decided. (Arthur has a soft spot for cats.)
“Be patient,” Mal finally said. “When you share dreams - you will know him then, perhaps better than you know yourself.”
That, Cobb reflected, was the best piece of advice he had yet received so far.
-
Teaching Arthur about kicks proved to bring its own challenge with it. Arthur has no hesitation when it comes to throwing himself off buildings, but the first time Cobb shot him, Arthur snatched the bullet from the air. He flipped it, and caught it again. “You won’t get rid of me that way,” He commented, tone flat. He let go - the bullet clattered to the ground.
“Can a bullet even kill you?” Cobb asked, with a certain morbid curiosity.
“No.” was Arthur’s curt response. “They’re just an annoyance.”
“Can you accept that a dream bullet will kill you?” Cobb suggested, changing tack. “Reality is determined by the dreamer - and to a partial extent, each of the participants in a shared dream.”
Arthur shrugged. “Possibly. Why?”
Cobb heard the unspoken ‘Is that an order?’ and decided they were making some progress. “A kick isn’t just triggered by falling, or by immersion into water. When we die in dreams, we wake up. I just didn’t think you were ready to shoot yourself.” He hefted the gun apologetically.
Arthur frowned, narrowing his eyes until they were merely slits. He took his own gun, pressed it to his head, and pulled the trigger. He collapsed immediately. Cobb knelt by Arthur’s limp body, checking to make sure Arthur was really dead, and therefore, awake. Some people had reflexive twitches at the last minute, and ended up disabled, in severe pain, or both - but not dead. He felt for a pulse, brushing the pale pentacle in the process. There was nothing. But then again, Arthur was quick. He seldom botched anything, and almost never twice.
When he opened his eyes, Cobb noticed Arthur’s hands shaking, just slightly, as he cupped a red die in them.
“Here,” He said, shoving a cup of warm water at Arthur and watching critically to make sure Arthur drank. He felt strangely sorry, and just the slightest hint of pity at the same time. “The first time is always the worst,”
“It gets better, Mr Cobb?” Arthur carefully slipped the die (his totem) into his pocket, drinking water slowly until the slight tremors in his fingers had stopped.
“Yeah.” Cobb smiled. Just a little. “You get used to it.” Just in case, he turned his back to Arthur to check his totem. The tiny mechanical compass immediately toppled over.
-