Wish You Were Here, Part 2
Title: Wish You Were Here
Fandom: Inception
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Arthur, Ariadne, Cobb, Mal, Miles,
Summary: The inception succeeds, and Saito is rescued but at the cost of Cobb, who is in a hospital, left in a coma. Life goes on. If the coma was the test of their friendship, then Arthur’s got a lot to prove when Cobb wakes up…with his memory in tatters. Mild Arthur/Cobb.
Note: Third fic of the Ṛta series.
Cobb had to be put back in restraints when he grabbed Arthur, manhandled him and slammed him hard against a wall. There was little of the shaking now, little of the faltering motor control he had shown. Arthur broke the hold as Cobb strained for a small brass top. One, Arthur learned, that could be jabbed into a person with enough force to puncture.
He wasn’t sure Cobb couldn’t manage that. He caught Cobb’s wrist and twisted, forcing him to drop the top, and twisted, trying to force Cobb back. A simple shoulder-throw had Cobb on the ground and subdued until the orderlies could burst into the room and restore some kind of control to the situation.
Sometimes, Arthur wondered if he came because he had to. Because he always did. He wondered why he stuck his neck out for Cobb. Why he kept coming back. He stared dispassionately at the man the orderlies were restraining. He saw nothing he recognised in there, nothing that could have given him any sort of answers.
They upped the chemical sedatives, and put him under restraints and subject to monitoring again. Arthur stared at the brass top, lying on the ground, discarded. He bent down, picked it up, and slipped it into his pocket.
She was lovely, he had told Ariadne. It had been true. He hadn’t known Mal, he’d told Cobb. That had also been true. Arthur thought about the funeral, the eulogy, the pictures he’d gotten of Mallorie Cobb from speaking with close friends and Cobb. What flashes he’d seen of her in dreams, lifeless echoes, and not the vicious projection he’d known.
He knew it, with the visceral sureness of intuition. She was lovely. Had been lovely. Lovely was the only word he could think of to describe her, and the love she’d elicited in Cobb. In all the people she had known. It was the only way he could think of describing the hole she’d left behind in all their lives when Mal had jumped off that ledge and snipped herself out of the tapestry completely.
Snip, went the scissors. Life went on.
Mal smiled. Arthur glanced at where her fingers rested lightly on the smooth surface of his table, and wondered if he would get fingerprints if he dusted the area of contact. He wondered whose prints they would be.
Don’t encourage Cobb’s delusions. Except that this wasn’t Cobb’s dream. His totem had said that, clearly. Arthur let out his breath slowly, forcing himself to relax. There wasn’t anything about not talking to Mal here. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m not your enemy this time, Arthur,” she said softly. Perched almost on the edge of his chair. Wide blue eyes fixed on him, and for some reason, Cobb’s face swam to mind. It was the same probing expression, undimmed in intensity but just faintly glazed and lost when the light struck the irises in the right places. Fragile, like porcelain.
This time. Arthur gave a wry smile and acknowledged the clever wording. “Doesn’t tell me what you’re doing here.”
She shrugged elegantly. “I thought you might need someone to talk to.”
First, it had been Jase calling. Then Seth. Ariadne. Even Foster had taken an interest in his mental state, and Arthur wouldn’t be surprised if Ellis joined the queue soon. He wanted to laugh hysterically at the idea that even Cobb’s dead wife wanted in on the action.
What he said was, “Why?”
An expansive gesture, an open movement of her hands, suggested nothing. A light tip of her shoulders in another shrug. Nothing to be said, there. He shifted a little. Watched her, wondered if she was armed. Wondered why he was sitting across the table, talking to her. In his apartment. Thought about how long it took for him to go for his gun.
“You ought to know better than I do, Arthur. Don’t you?”
He wasn’t going to play that game. “No,” he said shortly, fighting down a surge of irritation.
“Pity,” Mal said, lightly. Tapped at the surface of the table with her fingers. He watched her hands, watched the tip of the scar come into view. “You don’t want to talk about Arthur?”
Arthur.
The way she said it made frisson of fear run down Arthur’s spine. Reflexive. He almost shivered, and glanced down at the table, feeling her eyes on him. Measuring. Expectant. As if she knew something he didn’t.
“I don’t find it constructive to talk about myself in the third person.”
“But it’s constructive to talk about Cobb?”
Arthur went very still. Stopped tipping his chair back. Sat up straight. She caught his hand in hers, and flipped it over, palm-up. He wondered if she did palm reading for a hobby or something. Keep thinking inane thoughts, Arthur. That’s how you distract yourself from ideas that frighten you, isn’t it?
“What are you saying?” he demanded. He curled his fingers tightly shut over his palm, tried to pull away. She wouldn’t let him.
“What do you remember of the night I died?” What do you remember?
Screaming. Mal sat on the ledge, of the opposite room. Voice softly threatening. Pleading. She kicks off a shoe. Steps off the ledge. The faces. He can’t see the faces. Someone is screaming. He doesn’t know who. They don’t have faces.
And above all, Mal’s voice, smooth as silk, sliding past his defences. Slipping past them as if they’d never existed. “Why do you remember that night, Arthur?” Knife slipping home, sharp as steel now. He thought about a knife slicing across his back. Crying out. Was that him? Why don’t they have faces? Calm down, Arthur. Take a deep breath.
He’s shaking. Jesus Christ, he’s shaking.
“No,” he managed. Denial. It can’t be. It’s not happening. It’s not true. He took another deep breath, and exhaled slowly. He needed to calm down, and then force his mind to think clearly. Your name is Arthur. You have a job with the FBI, working in mindcrime. You were posted to the field office in LA. Your family lives in Chicago. You have an older brother named Will; you don’t speak regularly. He’s a tenure-track professor with the University of Chicago, working in physics.
Why couldn’t he push past the words and see the images?
A well-executed undercover assignment. Is it possible to be undercover and not know it? Something about dreamsharing. Can it be used to create some kind of deep, subconscious-level conditioning? Conscious-level conditioning? Why do you keep coming back to Cobb, Arthur?
Do you dream?
Arthur.
“I think,” he managed, “We’ve exhausted all the possibilities of that conversation.” Mal just sat there, watching him. He didn’t know if that was pity he saw on her face, more than anything else. He pushed back the chair and stood up to go. Go where? Out of his apartment? To the office?
“We could talk about something else,” Mal offered. She caught his wrist with a hand, preventing him from walking away. “Something safe. Like a story. Stories aren’t real, are they, Arthur?”
Slowly, he sat back down. Pushed the chair back. Just wanted to be as far away from her as he could. He said nothing.
“Theseus. Are you familiar with the myth of Theseus, Arthur?” Her voice was light and teasing. As if there was something she wanted from him, something she wanted him to admit.
Arthur kept silent. Don’t play her game. Don’t give her what she wants.
“A good story, isn’t it? Simple, as all good stories are. Ariadne gives her string to Theseus. In some older forms, she leads him towards the centre herself, before she slips away. He follows her string, uses it to navigate the Labyrinth. To find his way out. And then the minotaur is slain.” A quick, sharp gesture with her hand. “Killed. It is over. But - ” She leaned towards him, ghost-pale eyes wide, and breathed, rapt, “What if Theseus needs the minotaur, Arthur? What is left of the fear, of the brooding truth at the heart of the labyrinth if there isn’t a monster? If there isn’t something left there, drawn from our deepest hopes, our deepest fears…the shadows of our nightmares…”
She waited, as if for a response. Arthur didn’t give her any. Mal sat back, looking oddly satisfied. “We are very much the same, you and I,” she whispered.
Arthur felt his jaw clench.
“Medication,” Dr Varun said firmly. “I’ve been giving him medication for the violent episodes. The problem is finding what works for him, and what doesn’t.” It sounded very much like guesswork to Arthur. He didn’t say it outright, but Dr Varun chuckled softly, and added, “The problem when it comes to medicating for psychological disorders is that different patients respond differently.”
Arthur allowed himself to appear faintly chastened by the hint of admonition in Dr Varun’s voice. He thought about the last episode again, having to subdue Cobb until the orderlies got to them. Thought about Mal, maybe a fragment left over from all the dreams he’d shared, working with Cobb. Arthur wasn’t even sure how such things worked. They seemed silly, in the bright, sterile lighting of the doctor’s office. Inconsequential. Dream-like.
What if he needs the minotaur, Arthur?
Maybe Mal had been the opposite of what they had imagined: a personification constructed by Cobb’s mind to control the psychosis. Without her, there was nothing left, nothing to hold the violent rage in check. Nothing to allow Cobb to assume conscious control.
We are very much the same, you and I.
Disquieted, Arthur shook off the last fragments of her words. “Any idea if he’ll get better?” he found himself asking Dr Varun, for want of anything else to say. Just to keep talking, to keep focusing on the problem of Cobb.
Dr Varun shrugged. “With the mind, who can say?” he asked, rhetorically. “But he seems to trust you. That is a good sign, I think.” Arthur glanced out through the window. At the figure, unaware that he was being watched. What did he see, Arthur wondered. A lone figure, still walking the shrinking turns of the labyrinth in search of…in search of what? Enlightenment? Redemption?
The minotaur?
He shivered a little at that last thought, and looked at Dr Varun. Dr Varun appeared not to notice. “Maybe,” Arthur said, at last. “Thank you for your time, doctor.”
In his mind, sitting in a dark, abandoned corner, Mal whispered, “What mystery and fear is left in the labyrinth if there isn’t a minotaur?”
Arthur hesitated. “Dr Varun,” he asked, slowly. “Do you think projections are conscious?”
A stupid question, really. Chase had told him they weren’t. They were just projections, not independent minds simulated by the human brain. He’d told his trainees the same thing, when he’d been lecturing at Quantico for a while. But there was Mal, he reminded himself.
He didn’t even know why he was asking.
How would you know if you were a projection?
No, that wasn’t true. He knew why.
Dr Varun frowned, took off his glasses, and wiped at them absently with a handkerchief. What he said was, “Perhaps. A philosopher would no doubt remind you of the problem of other minds, so as to speak. Yet anyone who has entered a dream must concede that a projection would pass a Turing test.” A faint smile graced his face at that, Arthur nodded. “Artificial intelligence? Self-aware fragments of consciousness? Perhaps. Is that in itself sufficient for consciousness?”
No answers. More questions.
You don’t want to talk about Arthur?
Just a dream, Arthur thought. Strands still lingered, like cobwebs after a corner had been swept clean. Still clung, sticky, to his mind. His hand brushed past the pocket with the die, hesitated, almost as if he’d encountered an electric shock.
What do you remember? How did you get here? What are you doing?
“Thank you,” he found himself saying.
Dr Varun nodded, replacing his glasses. “Take care,” the doctor said. This light frown was directed at Arthur now, and there was some concern in his expression. “You should be getting more sleep.”
Arthur wasn’t sure if that was a good idea. But he wasn’t going to talk about dreaming about Cobb’s dead wife wanting to be his personal therapist to Cobb’s doctor, so he settled for a nod of acknowledgement, thanked Dr Varun for his time and then excused himself and left the office.
Paperwork.
No matter how much everyone complained about the paperwork they needed to file, Arthur found himself grateful towards whoever had decided on the need to file forms and expenses for the smallest and insignificant of things. His request to see his files had gotten through, and now he was going through all the papers, all the reports in the hope of finding…something. Anything that could make the discrepancies make sense.
He flipped through reminders of the old cases he’d taken and cleared, even one or two training reports from Quantico. Some things he couldn’t access, and didn’t bother to request for. They’d just be redacted. Nothing he could quite work with. He wasn’t sure he needed things like background checks, anyway. The right papers would tell him enough about what he needed to know.
It was a little like researching on a mark again, finding the data that Cobb wanted. Except that this time, Arthur’s reasons were far more personal, and the person he was checking in on was none other than himself.
And except there were reports Arthur didn’t remember writing. Could have sworn he’d never typed out at all. He frowned down at the report he’d supposedly submitted to the committee at the end of his undercover assignment. It was a neat, thorough summation. The style, the way the words were couched was undoubtedly his own. The signature appended to the report was his own. Except there was one clear problem.
He hadn’t written that report. Hadn’t even remembered writing it. And he was fairly certain there was no way he could have written a report he didn’t remember on an assignment he didn’t even remember.
Damnit. He’d asked for the reports and the papers to figure out exactly what was going on. Arthur wondered if he needed to get Ellis to put in a request for a higher level of clearance. Or something. Would Ellis even approve?
No. There had to be something here he was missing out on. Arthur moved through the stack of papers he’d sorted out as vaguely relevant again. He’d pinpointed the rough vicinity of the period in time when he’d been supposedly given the assignment. Flipped through the report he’d submitted on Cobb, and a report that noted that the Cobb case had been resolved. Handed over to the DA, and a reference to a report that was -
Arthur paused. When had that happened? He frowned, and checked the report numbers, flipping through the index cards on the box. Godamnit. A report on the Cobb case that had been held back? When he’d practically worked on that case and gave them their evidence on a platter?
He set that aside as the first irregularity. Continued on through his search again. A notice of the shooting he’d been involved in, and two weeks of administrative leave. Another note of questionable behaviour during the Cobb case, and another two weeks of suspension, followed by a note of his disciplinary hearing and the period he’d spent on report, working out his sentence.
Nothing odd in that, he’d remembered those.
And then he hit upon the memo he wanted. The form filled in, noting that he’d been given an undercover assignment…
And Arthur sat there, stunned.
Fucking hell shit. It was fucking redacted. Why the hell was it even redacted when he supposedly knew everything about that assignment? He caught another of those tantalising references as he scanned the document, but that was all. Another reference to another report, another memo that he didn’t have access too. A quick search request revealed that the files weren’t even under the purview of the FBI any longer.
Well. So much for inter-agency cooperation. Arthur couldn’t think of why he was running into CIA or Department of Defense walls when trying to access files related to the Cobb case.
He wasn’t sure it was a good thing.
He reviewed his options again. Requesting access. Well, he could probably talk Ellis into it. And he’d get access. And Cobb would miraculously recover his memory, and it was going to rain teddy bears and candy.
But Arthur was used to putting things together from little bits and pieces of information. Used to coaxing threads to follow from these little pieces of information. And as he referred to each of the irregularities, he found his thread.
A single name that linked all of the documents, the same person who’d approved the swap of the Cobb case, who’d approved and given him the undercover assignment. The same person Arthur could have sworn he’d never met.
Assistant Director Elizabeth Kerr.
Well, Arthur thought. Maybe it was time to see a woman about some papers.
Busy, everyone said. Not to mention that Arthur needed to fly down to DC to meet Kerr. A careful conversation with Chase and Ellis managed to get him a slot with the elusive AD Kerr.
Careful, Arthur told himself. He had to ask his questions carefully. All he had to go on was the fact that her name was on all the documents. Did she know Saito? And yet, whatever it was had happened during the period when he had been investigating Cobb as well. Surely Saito hadn’t had a hand in the pot all the way back then.
So what was he left with, then?
Maybe she’d had a perfectly sane reason, Arthur told himself, as he waited at the airport to catch his flight. He checked his watch again. Maybe Saito called in a favour later. That was the link; perfect coincidence. Nothing more.
Somehow, the word ‘coincidence’ didn’t leave Arthur feeling rather settled. Not when he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right.
He’d done preliminary research on Kerr, and a little on Saito. The problem was, Arthur couldn’t find anything that linked the two of them. But he hadn’t been trying particularly hard. Perhaps he’d missed something. He’d have to check again after he got back. He didn’t think these kind of connections and favours were the sort of thing anyone would properly admit to. That came close enough to corruption, interference…the list went on.
Maybe he should have tried calling Saito again.
And then, Arthur’s cell phone went off, in his pocket. He fished it out, and took the call.
Cobb. Another bad incident at the hospital. They couldn’t locate him. He was completely gone, one or two orderlies were injured…
Shit.
Arthur told the nurse he’d be there as soon as he could. He hesitated for a moment, and glanced at his watch. Shit. There was no time. He couldn’t go back to the hospital and return to LAX in time to catch his flight out to DC.
In the end, he made the decision.
He shoved the cell phone back into his pocket and made a run for the carpark.
Shit, shit, shit.
Arthur kept cursing in his head as he drove, and tried not to think about how Ellis would kill him for this. And after he’d gone through all the channels to try and set up a meeting with Kerr too. He wasn’t sure if he’d get that chance again, but for some reason, it didn’t seem as urgent as getting to Cobb before…
Before what? His mind wanted to know. What was Cobb going to do? What could Cobb do?
His lips pressed together in a tight smile. For some reason, the long slash along his back had started to ache with sharp needles of pain again.
Why do you keep coming back to Cobb, Arthur?
Arthur pushed aside the questions, focused on the problem at hand. Where the hell was Cobb likely to be? He frowned. Okay. If he was Cobb, where would he head? Cobb didn’t remember much of his past. Arthur wasn’t sure if Cobb even remembered where he had lived. That left out Cobb’s home. Arthur’s? No, he decided. It’d be a miracle if Cobb even remembered where he’d stayed. By the same argument, he had to discard the hotel.
The nurse had said they couldn’t locate Cobb. Did they have any reason to believe that Cobb had left the premises entirely?
If he was Cobb, where would he go?
Arthur frowned, and tried to think it through. Cobb remembered some things. Had Cobb said anything about remembering where he lived? Probably not. They’d have gotten a call from Marie, if that was the case. Arthur figured he could maybe put a call through to Jase later, get him to check his place. Hospital, then. Arthur tried to visualise the hospital. Where would Cobb go? He was Cobb. Where would he go?
Locked in an expansive room, window blocked by bars because they were afraid he would throw himself out of the window, given a chance. Standard operating procedure around the mentally disturbed and suicidal.
You are Cobb. What do you remember?
Arthur’s mouth moved in a silent whisper.
Mal.
He floored the accelerator, hoping he was going to get there in time. Hoping that Cobb wasn’t going to try anything stupid.
“We’re searching the wards right now,” the security officer in charge of the search said, probably with far more confidence than he felt. “We’ll locate him soon. Don’t worry.”
Arthur wanted to ask if he remotely looked worried, and then decided it was a pointless question. “What happened to the others?” he wanted to know.
The officer - Chapman, his tag read - shrugged. “He’d gotten hold of something sharp,” he explained. “Cut at Horace when Horace came to bring him for physio. God only knows where the hell he’s gotten to by now.”
“I’m taking a look around,” Arthur said. Chapman would have opened his mouth to argue, but Arthur’s tone made it clear he wasn’t in the mood to debate. “Look, Chapman. You’d rather not have me underfoot, and I’m perfectly capable of subduing him.” Chapman hesitated, and Arthur sighed and gave in. Oh, for God’s sake. That man was decently trained, at least. Ellis would have had a fit if he knew, but Arthur flashed the badge anyway.
“I’m taking a look around,” Arthur said, and this time, Chapman gave in, and rattled off a series of numbers. Arthur committed them to memory.
“Call if you find him.”
When, Arthur thought. They’d wasted enough time already. He gave Chapman a brief nod, and went up. The elevator only brought him to the highest floor, but Arthur forced himself to pause at a map showing the layout of the hospital level. He shouldered open the door to the stairs, and glanced around.
The access ladder to the roof was there. The hatch had been flipped open. He had no idea how Cobb had done it, but there it was. Arthur sighed as he glanced at the access ladder. He’d have to go up, of course. He hesitated, and then realised he should probably be certain before he made the call.
You are Cobb. What do you remember?
Mal. A hotel ledge.
A hotel ledge, burned into Cobb’s memory. One of the few locations he remembered. There weren’t too many windows in this wind, and the windows Cobb would have seen that he could have had reasonable access too were high. But there was another level of the hospital - a flat roofing of cement that wasn’t quite the roof per se, but high enough, with ledges.
A reasonable guess said that Cobb was going to be there.
As Arthur gained the roof, he saw a figure. A flash of movement. The first thing he thought of was how stupid he’d been. There was nowhere to go and back off - he might slip and fall down the ladder.
And then there was a sharp pain along his abdomen, and then Arthur twisted and forced himself off the ladder, and onto the roof proper. Crouched, and glaring at him, blue eyes wild and with no recognition registering in them was Cobb.
Arthur saw it, then. The length of jagged metal, maybe from a tray or a spoon - he didn’t know how Cobb had gotten it, or filed at it, in Cobb’s hand. Bloodied, droplets of blood falling from the tip and the edge. Cobb had gotten himself a shiv.
Well, fuck it. Third time pays for all.
Arthur glanced down. Didn’t look deep - more a thin, angry red slash across the abdomen to add to the bloody collection that Cobb had already gotten him. Dark humour, there. He wasn’t sure if it’d sank deep, but figured that he wasn’t admiring his guts, so it couldn’t have been that bad.
There was more blood than he’d expected. His hands were bloody when he’d pulled them away from the ragged edges of his torn shirt, where they clung to the bloodied edges of the wound. The shirt itself was torn and starting to get soaked with blood, and Arthur sucked in a careful breath and straightened up. He felt a little dizzy, which wasn’t a good sign.
“Put down the shiv, Cobb,” Arthur said quietly. He reminded himself to sound calm. Soothing. In control. Blood stained his hands. Kept welling up. Godamnit. That was supposed to be a good shirt.
Why the hell was he thinking about shirts now?
No response. Cobb’s eyes narrowed. He said nothing, crouched, shiv held out before him defensively.
“No one needs to get hurt,” Arthur prodded. He took a tentative step forward, and Cobb jabbed out. Arthur’s eyes followed the tip of the shiv, watching the deadly pattern it weaved. Nothing dangerous. A warning, to keep back.
Keep control of the situation. Keep him off-balance.
Arthur took another step forward. Held up his bloodied hands, to show he was unarmed. “It’s me. Arthur,” he said, and now Chapman wasn’t the only one speaking with a confidence he didn’t have. “You’re perfectly safe, Cobb. You don’t need the shiv.”
“Keep back!” Cobb snarled. A trace of panic. A trace of desperation. Another jab with the tip of his knife. “You’re not Arthur. You’re not real.”
Stay reassuring, but firm. “I’m Arthur,” Arthur repeated. “Drop the shiv, Cobb.” Another step forward. Closer, still. Cobb took one step backwards. Threatened, the clinical part of Arthur noticed. Instinct warred against training, screamed that he wasn’t doing it right. Cobb didn’t need a law enforcement officer here right now. He needed…he needed…
One more step.
Cobb’s reserve shattered. He was shouting, crying out something, stabbing at Arthur with the shiv. Arthur blocked with his forearm, caught Cobb’s arm as it came down, and then disarmed him, hearing the shiv clatter to the ground. Damn it all, but Cobb hadn’t even wrapped the shiv in something to make it easier to hold. The metal had been rough, and Cobb’s hands were bleeding where he’d clenched his fingers too tightly around the shiv.
Lines of blood welled up, dark red in the light.
Godamnit, Arthur. What the hell are you doing?
More pain. Arthur glanced at his arm and realised dimly that Cobb had managed to catch him across the biceps as well. His fingers came away wet with fresh blood. “You’re going to be okay, Cobb,” he said. Kept saying that, even as the figure dropped to the ground, shaking. Racked with dry, convulsive sobs. Even as he carefully winced and crouched down next to Cobb. He kept up the steady stream of conversation, guessing that was what Cobb needed.
A friend. Not a law enforcement official. Don’t tell him you’re real. Prove it.
So Arthur just kept talking, and watching out to see if Cobb made any move for the shiv. He talked about the time Cobb had walked in on him in the shower. He talked about the time he’d made a mistake and swapped their drinks and they’d had a good laugh because Cobb hated any sugar or milk with his coffee and Arthur could only take coffee with enough sugar to cause diabetes. Their fights. When Cobb had pretty much started trying to push all of Arthur’s buttons, and then started getting in on Arthur’s personal life. The things they did with their spare time. How Cobb always knew where to find him, anyway, and how they always understood what the other meant.
How he always knew where to find Cobb when Cobb was off on his own.
Godamnit Cobb, why didn’t you tell me. Why didn’t you tell me about Mal. I trusted you, and I’d promised to help you. He talked about Vietnam, and a flat. A promise - not quite a promise, but the question had been real enough.
I need a touchstone, Arthur. Someone I can trust.
Yes, he’d said. Okay.
Gradually, Cobb calmed down, enough that Arthur realised he wasn’t shaking anymore. Enough that Arthur realised he wasn’t in a good state himself. He’d probably talked himself hoarse by now. Angrily, he rubbed at his eyes, until the world stopped blurring. He didn’t know when Cobb had shifted closer to him so they were all but pressing up against each other. Didn’t know when his hand had shifted to rest on Cobb’s shoulder.
There was something vulnerable in Cobb’s eyes now, something that Arthur had seen before, but only in flashes. Something he’d seen that day in Vietnam; sharp but fragile. Like porcelain.
Something of the old Cobb?
“You’re a mess,” Cobb said at last. His voice trembled only a little.
“I know,” Arthur agreed. He felt his shirt. The cloth clung to his skin, damp and sticky. He needed to call hospital security, he thought. At least this time, he just needed to go downstairs to get access to medical care. Down that ladder again.
“I’m sorry,” Cobb offered. “I….” he took a deep breath. “Sometimes, I think I that if I open my eyes, this…will just have been a dream.”
You’re not the only one, Arthur thought wryly. He said, “I know. I’m sorry.” Sorry for messing up. Sorry for being here too late. Maybe if he hadn’t been so content to sit back and wait for Cobb to tell him things - well. It took two people to build a bridge. Maybe he hadn’t been trying, too.
He pulled his hand away. Cobb caught his hand by the wrist, and held it.
“Don’t be,” he said quietly. Haltingly. “I remember…a little. I think. The day at the platform. I tried to kill myself. I swear I looked…I looked all over the platform. Trying to find…no, I think I was trying to make sure no one was there. There was no way anyone could have seen me. And then you came. You caught me. You stopped me.” Small, forlorn smile. An offering. “I said it then? You’re my touchstone?”
He wouldn’t have said that if he could remember the times Arthur had screwed up. Arthur felt the guilt, a leaden weight in his stomach. “No,” he said quietly. “You don’t remember.”
Cobb was shaking his head, eyes bright. “A touchstone,” he said firmly. “I trusted you then.” He reached out, lightly traced the pattern of scars on Arthur’s back. Arthur shivered. How the hell had he known those were there? “I trust you now.”
Arthur wasn’t sure what response to make to that. He reached for his pocket, managed to find his cell phone. Cobb shot him a quizzical look.
“Calling for medical help,” Arthur said lightly. “I think I need it.”
Something dark flashed across Cobb’s expression. “They’re going to put me back in there, aren’t they?” he asked. “Drugged. Restrained.”
“I’ll talk to them,” Arthur offered. He studied Cobb’s expression, wondered, only for a short while, why he always ended up doing this sort of thing. “I’ll be there.” A promise. One that he promised to keep, and was rewarded by the easing of Cobb’s frown. Trust was what Arthur saw there, a complete trust that almost made him ache, because he sure as hell didn’t deserve it.
So stick by your word this time, Arthur.
So he couldn’t fill in the blank spaces in his memory. Didn’t know about the truth of the undercover assignment, and likely wouldn’t. Didn’t know about possible inter-agency involvement in Cobb’s case. Probably pissed off Ellis and wouldn’t get to talk to Kerr after all.
Cobb still couldn’t remember much. Still had his own problems, and probably wasn’t out of the woods yet.
Still, feeling the warm weight of Cobb’s body pressed lightly against his shoulder, watching the fingers wrapped around his, Arthur gave in. Realised that maybe he’d given in all along. He could live with not knowing the answers to what had happened. So maybe he could live with this too. This whole keeping Cobb out of trouble thing. And maybe…well, whatever that something more in Cobb’s gaze had entailed. It was something that Arthur shied away from confronting, and yet reluctantly admitted that maybe that was what he craved. Reciprocation.
To his surprise, that sounded more than just okay. That sounded good.
Fandom: Inception
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Arthur, Ariadne, Cobb, Mal, Miles,
Summary: The inception succeeds, and Saito is rescued but at the cost of Cobb, who is in a hospital, left in a coma. Life goes on. If the coma was the test of their friendship, then Arthur’s got a lot to prove when Cobb wakes up…with his memory in tatters. Mild Arthur/Cobb.
Note: Third fic of the Ṛta series.
Cobb had to be put back in restraints when he grabbed Arthur, manhandled him and slammed him hard against a wall. There was little of the shaking now, little of the faltering motor control he had shown. Arthur broke the hold as Cobb strained for a small brass top. One, Arthur learned, that could be jabbed into a person with enough force to puncture.
He wasn’t sure Cobb couldn’t manage that. He caught Cobb’s wrist and twisted, forcing him to drop the top, and twisted, trying to force Cobb back. A simple shoulder-throw had Cobb on the ground and subdued until the orderlies could burst into the room and restore some kind of control to the situation.
Sometimes, Arthur wondered if he came because he had to. Because he always did. He wondered why he stuck his neck out for Cobb. Why he kept coming back. He stared dispassionately at the man the orderlies were restraining. He saw nothing he recognised in there, nothing that could have given him any sort of answers.
They upped the chemical sedatives, and put him under restraints and subject to monitoring again. Arthur stared at the brass top, lying on the ground, discarded. He bent down, picked it up, and slipped it into his pocket.
She was lovely, he had told Ariadne. It had been true. He hadn’t known Mal, he’d told Cobb. That had also been true. Arthur thought about the funeral, the eulogy, the pictures he’d gotten of Mallorie Cobb from speaking with close friends and Cobb. What flashes he’d seen of her in dreams, lifeless echoes, and not the vicious projection he’d known.
He knew it, with the visceral sureness of intuition. She was lovely. Had been lovely. Lovely was the only word he could think of to describe her, and the love she’d elicited in Cobb. In all the people she had known. It was the only way he could think of describing the hole she’d left behind in all their lives when Mal had jumped off that ledge and snipped herself out of the tapestry completely.
Snip, went the scissors. Life went on.
Mal smiled. Arthur glanced at where her fingers rested lightly on the smooth surface of his table, and wondered if he would get fingerprints if he dusted the area of contact. He wondered whose prints they would be.
Don’t encourage Cobb’s delusions. Except that this wasn’t Cobb’s dream. His totem had said that, clearly. Arthur let out his breath slowly, forcing himself to relax. There wasn’t anything about not talking to Mal here. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m not your enemy this time, Arthur,” she said softly. Perched almost on the edge of his chair. Wide blue eyes fixed on him, and for some reason, Cobb’s face swam to mind. It was the same probing expression, undimmed in intensity but just faintly glazed and lost when the light struck the irises in the right places. Fragile, like porcelain.
This time. Arthur gave a wry smile and acknowledged the clever wording. “Doesn’t tell me what you’re doing here.”
She shrugged elegantly. “I thought you might need someone to talk to.”
First, it had been Jase calling. Then Seth. Ariadne. Even Foster had taken an interest in his mental state, and Arthur wouldn’t be surprised if Ellis joined the queue soon. He wanted to laugh hysterically at the idea that even Cobb’s dead wife wanted in on the action.
What he said was, “Why?”
An expansive gesture, an open movement of her hands, suggested nothing. A light tip of her shoulders in another shrug. Nothing to be said, there. He shifted a little. Watched her, wondered if she was armed. Wondered why he was sitting across the table, talking to her. In his apartment. Thought about how long it took for him to go for his gun.
“You ought to know better than I do, Arthur. Don’t you?”
He wasn’t going to play that game. “No,” he said shortly, fighting down a surge of irritation.
“Pity,” Mal said, lightly. Tapped at the surface of the table with her fingers. He watched her hands, watched the tip of the scar come into view. “You don’t want to talk about Arthur?”
Arthur.
The way she said it made frisson of fear run down Arthur’s spine. Reflexive. He almost shivered, and glanced down at the table, feeling her eyes on him. Measuring. Expectant. As if she knew something he didn’t.
“I don’t find it constructive to talk about myself in the third person.”
“But it’s constructive to talk about Cobb?”
Arthur went very still. Stopped tipping his chair back. Sat up straight. She caught his hand in hers, and flipped it over, palm-up. He wondered if she did palm reading for a hobby or something. Keep thinking inane thoughts, Arthur. That’s how you distract yourself from ideas that frighten you, isn’t it?
“What are you saying?” he demanded. He curled his fingers tightly shut over his palm, tried to pull away. She wouldn’t let him.
“What do you remember of the night I died?” What do you remember?
Screaming. Mal sat on the ledge, of the opposite room. Voice softly threatening. Pleading. She kicks off a shoe. Steps off the ledge. The faces. He can’t see the faces. Someone is screaming. He doesn’t know who. They don’t have faces.
And above all, Mal’s voice, smooth as silk, sliding past his defences. Slipping past them as if they’d never existed. “Why do you remember that night, Arthur?” Knife slipping home, sharp as steel now. He thought about a knife slicing across his back. Crying out. Was that him? Why don’t they have faces? Calm down, Arthur. Take a deep breath.
He’s shaking. Jesus Christ, he’s shaking.
“No,” he managed. Denial. It can’t be. It’s not happening. It’s not true. He took another deep breath, and exhaled slowly. He needed to calm down, and then force his mind to think clearly. Your name is Arthur. You have a job with the FBI, working in mindcrime. You were posted to the field office in LA. Your family lives in Chicago. You have an older brother named Will; you don’t speak regularly. He’s a tenure-track professor with the University of Chicago, working in physics.
Why couldn’t he push past the words and see the images?
A well-executed undercover assignment. Is it possible to be undercover and not know it? Something about dreamsharing. Can it be used to create some kind of deep, subconscious-level conditioning? Conscious-level conditioning? Why do you keep coming back to Cobb, Arthur?
Do you dream?
Arthur.
“I think,” he managed, “We’ve exhausted all the possibilities of that conversation.” Mal just sat there, watching him. He didn’t know if that was pity he saw on her face, more than anything else. He pushed back the chair and stood up to go. Go where? Out of his apartment? To the office?
“We could talk about something else,” Mal offered. She caught his wrist with a hand, preventing him from walking away. “Something safe. Like a story. Stories aren’t real, are they, Arthur?”
Slowly, he sat back down. Pushed the chair back. Just wanted to be as far away from her as he could. He said nothing.
“Theseus. Are you familiar with the myth of Theseus, Arthur?” Her voice was light and teasing. As if there was something she wanted from him, something she wanted him to admit.
Arthur kept silent. Don’t play her game. Don’t give her what she wants.
“A good story, isn’t it? Simple, as all good stories are. Ariadne gives her string to Theseus. In some older forms, she leads him towards the centre herself, before she slips away. He follows her string, uses it to navigate the Labyrinth. To find his way out. And then the minotaur is slain.” A quick, sharp gesture with her hand. “Killed. It is over. But - ” She leaned towards him, ghost-pale eyes wide, and breathed, rapt, “What if Theseus needs the minotaur, Arthur? What is left of the fear, of the brooding truth at the heart of the labyrinth if there isn’t a monster? If there isn’t something left there, drawn from our deepest hopes, our deepest fears…the shadows of our nightmares…”
She waited, as if for a response. Arthur didn’t give her any. Mal sat back, looking oddly satisfied. “We are very much the same, you and I,” she whispered.
Arthur felt his jaw clench.
“Medication,” Dr Varun said firmly. “I’ve been giving him medication for the violent episodes. The problem is finding what works for him, and what doesn’t.” It sounded very much like guesswork to Arthur. He didn’t say it outright, but Dr Varun chuckled softly, and added, “The problem when it comes to medicating for psychological disorders is that different patients respond differently.”
Arthur allowed himself to appear faintly chastened by the hint of admonition in Dr Varun’s voice. He thought about the last episode again, having to subdue Cobb until the orderlies got to them. Thought about Mal, maybe a fragment left over from all the dreams he’d shared, working with Cobb. Arthur wasn’t even sure how such things worked. They seemed silly, in the bright, sterile lighting of the doctor’s office. Inconsequential. Dream-like.
What if he needs the minotaur, Arthur?
Maybe Mal had been the opposite of what they had imagined: a personification constructed by Cobb’s mind to control the psychosis. Without her, there was nothing left, nothing to hold the violent rage in check. Nothing to allow Cobb to assume conscious control.
We are very much the same, you and I.
Disquieted, Arthur shook off the last fragments of her words. “Any idea if he’ll get better?” he found himself asking Dr Varun, for want of anything else to say. Just to keep talking, to keep focusing on the problem of Cobb.
Dr Varun shrugged. “With the mind, who can say?” he asked, rhetorically. “But he seems to trust you. That is a good sign, I think.” Arthur glanced out through the window. At the figure, unaware that he was being watched. What did he see, Arthur wondered. A lone figure, still walking the shrinking turns of the labyrinth in search of…in search of what? Enlightenment? Redemption?
The minotaur?
He shivered a little at that last thought, and looked at Dr Varun. Dr Varun appeared not to notice. “Maybe,” Arthur said, at last. “Thank you for your time, doctor.”
In his mind, sitting in a dark, abandoned corner, Mal whispered, “What mystery and fear is left in the labyrinth if there isn’t a minotaur?”
Arthur hesitated. “Dr Varun,” he asked, slowly. “Do you think projections are conscious?”
A stupid question, really. Chase had told him they weren’t. They were just projections, not independent minds simulated by the human brain. He’d told his trainees the same thing, when he’d been lecturing at Quantico for a while. But there was Mal, he reminded himself.
He didn’t even know why he was asking.
How would you know if you were a projection?
No, that wasn’t true. He knew why.
Dr Varun frowned, took off his glasses, and wiped at them absently with a handkerchief. What he said was, “Perhaps. A philosopher would no doubt remind you of the problem of other minds, so as to speak. Yet anyone who has entered a dream must concede that a projection would pass a Turing test.” A faint smile graced his face at that, Arthur nodded. “Artificial intelligence? Self-aware fragments of consciousness? Perhaps. Is that in itself sufficient for consciousness?”
No answers. More questions.
You don’t want to talk about Arthur?
Just a dream, Arthur thought. Strands still lingered, like cobwebs after a corner had been swept clean. Still clung, sticky, to his mind. His hand brushed past the pocket with the die, hesitated, almost as if he’d encountered an electric shock.
What do you remember? How did you get here? What are you doing?
“Thank you,” he found himself saying.
Dr Varun nodded, replacing his glasses. “Take care,” the doctor said. This light frown was directed at Arthur now, and there was some concern in his expression. “You should be getting more sleep.”
Arthur wasn’t sure if that was a good idea. But he wasn’t going to talk about dreaming about Cobb’s dead wife wanting to be his personal therapist to Cobb’s doctor, so he settled for a nod of acknowledgement, thanked Dr Varun for his time and then excused himself and left the office.
Paperwork.
No matter how much everyone complained about the paperwork they needed to file, Arthur found himself grateful towards whoever had decided on the need to file forms and expenses for the smallest and insignificant of things. His request to see his files had gotten through, and now he was going through all the papers, all the reports in the hope of finding…something. Anything that could make the discrepancies make sense.
He flipped through reminders of the old cases he’d taken and cleared, even one or two training reports from Quantico. Some things he couldn’t access, and didn’t bother to request for. They’d just be redacted. Nothing he could quite work with. He wasn’t sure he needed things like background checks, anyway. The right papers would tell him enough about what he needed to know.
It was a little like researching on a mark again, finding the data that Cobb wanted. Except that this time, Arthur’s reasons were far more personal, and the person he was checking in on was none other than himself.
And except there were reports Arthur didn’t remember writing. Could have sworn he’d never typed out at all. He frowned down at the report he’d supposedly submitted to the committee at the end of his undercover assignment. It was a neat, thorough summation. The style, the way the words were couched was undoubtedly his own. The signature appended to the report was his own. Except there was one clear problem.
He hadn’t written that report. Hadn’t even remembered writing it. And he was fairly certain there was no way he could have written a report he didn’t remember on an assignment he didn’t even remember.
Damnit. He’d asked for the reports and the papers to figure out exactly what was going on. Arthur wondered if he needed to get Ellis to put in a request for a higher level of clearance. Or something. Would Ellis even approve?
No. There had to be something here he was missing out on. Arthur moved through the stack of papers he’d sorted out as vaguely relevant again. He’d pinpointed the rough vicinity of the period in time when he’d been supposedly given the assignment. Flipped through the report he’d submitted on Cobb, and a report that noted that the Cobb case had been resolved. Handed over to the DA, and a reference to a report that was -
Arthur paused. When had that happened? He frowned, and checked the report numbers, flipping through the index cards on the box. Godamnit. A report on the Cobb case that had been held back? When he’d practically worked on that case and gave them their evidence on a platter?
He set that aside as the first irregularity. Continued on through his search again. A notice of the shooting he’d been involved in, and two weeks of administrative leave. Another note of questionable behaviour during the Cobb case, and another two weeks of suspension, followed by a note of his disciplinary hearing and the period he’d spent on report, working out his sentence.
Nothing odd in that, he’d remembered those.
And then he hit upon the memo he wanted. The form filled in, noting that he’d been given an undercover assignment…
And Arthur sat there, stunned.
Fucking hell shit. It was fucking redacted. Why the hell was it even redacted when he supposedly knew everything about that assignment? He caught another of those tantalising references as he scanned the document, but that was all. Another reference to another report, another memo that he didn’t have access too. A quick search request revealed that the files weren’t even under the purview of the FBI any longer.
Well. So much for inter-agency cooperation. Arthur couldn’t think of why he was running into CIA or Department of Defense walls when trying to access files related to the Cobb case.
He wasn’t sure it was a good thing.
He reviewed his options again. Requesting access. Well, he could probably talk Ellis into it. And he’d get access. And Cobb would miraculously recover his memory, and it was going to rain teddy bears and candy.
But Arthur was used to putting things together from little bits and pieces of information. Used to coaxing threads to follow from these little pieces of information. And as he referred to each of the irregularities, he found his thread.
A single name that linked all of the documents, the same person who’d approved the swap of the Cobb case, who’d approved and given him the undercover assignment. The same person Arthur could have sworn he’d never met.
Assistant Director Elizabeth Kerr.
Well, Arthur thought. Maybe it was time to see a woman about some papers.
Busy, everyone said. Not to mention that Arthur needed to fly down to DC to meet Kerr. A careful conversation with Chase and Ellis managed to get him a slot with the elusive AD Kerr.
Careful, Arthur told himself. He had to ask his questions carefully. All he had to go on was the fact that her name was on all the documents. Did she know Saito? And yet, whatever it was had happened during the period when he had been investigating Cobb as well. Surely Saito hadn’t had a hand in the pot all the way back then.
So what was he left with, then?
Maybe she’d had a perfectly sane reason, Arthur told himself, as he waited at the airport to catch his flight. He checked his watch again. Maybe Saito called in a favour later. That was the link; perfect coincidence. Nothing more.
Somehow, the word ‘coincidence’ didn’t leave Arthur feeling rather settled. Not when he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right.
He’d done preliminary research on Kerr, and a little on Saito. The problem was, Arthur couldn’t find anything that linked the two of them. But he hadn’t been trying particularly hard. Perhaps he’d missed something. He’d have to check again after he got back. He didn’t think these kind of connections and favours were the sort of thing anyone would properly admit to. That came close enough to corruption, interference…the list went on.
Maybe he should have tried calling Saito again.
And then, Arthur’s cell phone went off, in his pocket. He fished it out, and took the call.
Cobb. Another bad incident at the hospital. They couldn’t locate him. He was completely gone, one or two orderlies were injured…
Shit.
Arthur told the nurse he’d be there as soon as he could. He hesitated for a moment, and glanced at his watch. Shit. There was no time. He couldn’t go back to the hospital and return to LAX in time to catch his flight out to DC.
In the end, he made the decision.
He shoved the cell phone back into his pocket and made a run for the carpark.
Shit, shit, shit.
Arthur kept cursing in his head as he drove, and tried not to think about how Ellis would kill him for this. And after he’d gone through all the channels to try and set up a meeting with Kerr too. He wasn’t sure if he’d get that chance again, but for some reason, it didn’t seem as urgent as getting to Cobb before…
Before what? His mind wanted to know. What was Cobb going to do? What could Cobb do?
His lips pressed together in a tight smile. For some reason, the long slash along his back had started to ache with sharp needles of pain again.
Why do you keep coming back to Cobb, Arthur?
Arthur pushed aside the questions, focused on the problem at hand. Where the hell was Cobb likely to be? He frowned. Okay. If he was Cobb, where would he head? Cobb didn’t remember much of his past. Arthur wasn’t sure if Cobb even remembered where he had lived. That left out Cobb’s home. Arthur’s? No, he decided. It’d be a miracle if Cobb even remembered where he’d stayed. By the same argument, he had to discard the hotel.
The nurse had said they couldn’t locate Cobb. Did they have any reason to believe that Cobb had left the premises entirely?
If he was Cobb, where would he go?
Arthur frowned, and tried to think it through. Cobb remembered some things. Had Cobb said anything about remembering where he lived? Probably not. They’d have gotten a call from Marie, if that was the case. Arthur figured he could maybe put a call through to Jase later, get him to check his place. Hospital, then. Arthur tried to visualise the hospital. Where would Cobb go? He was Cobb. Where would he go?
Locked in an expansive room, window blocked by bars because they were afraid he would throw himself out of the window, given a chance. Standard operating procedure around the mentally disturbed and suicidal.
You are Cobb. What do you remember?
Arthur’s mouth moved in a silent whisper.
Mal.
He floored the accelerator, hoping he was going to get there in time. Hoping that Cobb wasn’t going to try anything stupid.
“We’re searching the wards right now,” the security officer in charge of the search said, probably with far more confidence than he felt. “We’ll locate him soon. Don’t worry.”
Arthur wanted to ask if he remotely looked worried, and then decided it was a pointless question. “What happened to the others?” he wanted to know.
The officer - Chapman, his tag read - shrugged. “He’d gotten hold of something sharp,” he explained. “Cut at Horace when Horace came to bring him for physio. God only knows where the hell he’s gotten to by now.”
“I’m taking a look around,” Arthur said. Chapman would have opened his mouth to argue, but Arthur’s tone made it clear he wasn’t in the mood to debate. “Look, Chapman. You’d rather not have me underfoot, and I’m perfectly capable of subduing him.” Chapman hesitated, and Arthur sighed and gave in. Oh, for God’s sake. That man was decently trained, at least. Ellis would have had a fit if he knew, but Arthur flashed the badge anyway.
“I’m taking a look around,” Arthur said, and this time, Chapman gave in, and rattled off a series of numbers. Arthur committed them to memory.
“Call if you find him.”
When, Arthur thought. They’d wasted enough time already. He gave Chapman a brief nod, and went up. The elevator only brought him to the highest floor, but Arthur forced himself to pause at a map showing the layout of the hospital level. He shouldered open the door to the stairs, and glanced around.
The access ladder to the roof was there. The hatch had been flipped open. He had no idea how Cobb had done it, but there it was. Arthur sighed as he glanced at the access ladder. He’d have to go up, of course. He hesitated, and then realised he should probably be certain before he made the call.
You are Cobb. What do you remember?
Mal. A hotel ledge.
A hotel ledge, burned into Cobb’s memory. One of the few locations he remembered. There weren’t too many windows in this wind, and the windows Cobb would have seen that he could have had reasonable access too were high. But there was another level of the hospital - a flat roofing of cement that wasn’t quite the roof per se, but high enough, with ledges.
A reasonable guess said that Cobb was going to be there.
As Arthur gained the roof, he saw a figure. A flash of movement. The first thing he thought of was how stupid he’d been. There was nowhere to go and back off - he might slip and fall down the ladder.
And then there was a sharp pain along his abdomen, and then Arthur twisted and forced himself off the ladder, and onto the roof proper. Crouched, and glaring at him, blue eyes wild and with no recognition registering in them was Cobb.
Arthur saw it, then. The length of jagged metal, maybe from a tray or a spoon - he didn’t know how Cobb had gotten it, or filed at it, in Cobb’s hand. Bloodied, droplets of blood falling from the tip and the edge. Cobb had gotten himself a shiv.
Well, fuck it. Third time pays for all.
Arthur glanced down. Didn’t look deep - more a thin, angry red slash across the abdomen to add to the bloody collection that Cobb had already gotten him. Dark humour, there. He wasn’t sure if it’d sank deep, but figured that he wasn’t admiring his guts, so it couldn’t have been that bad.
There was more blood than he’d expected. His hands were bloody when he’d pulled them away from the ragged edges of his torn shirt, where they clung to the bloodied edges of the wound. The shirt itself was torn and starting to get soaked with blood, and Arthur sucked in a careful breath and straightened up. He felt a little dizzy, which wasn’t a good sign.
“Put down the shiv, Cobb,” Arthur said quietly. He reminded himself to sound calm. Soothing. In control. Blood stained his hands. Kept welling up. Godamnit. That was supposed to be a good shirt.
Why the hell was he thinking about shirts now?
No response. Cobb’s eyes narrowed. He said nothing, crouched, shiv held out before him defensively.
“No one needs to get hurt,” Arthur prodded. He took a tentative step forward, and Cobb jabbed out. Arthur’s eyes followed the tip of the shiv, watching the deadly pattern it weaved. Nothing dangerous. A warning, to keep back.
Keep control of the situation. Keep him off-balance.
Arthur took another step forward. Held up his bloodied hands, to show he was unarmed. “It’s me. Arthur,” he said, and now Chapman wasn’t the only one speaking with a confidence he didn’t have. “You’re perfectly safe, Cobb. You don’t need the shiv.”
“Keep back!” Cobb snarled. A trace of panic. A trace of desperation. Another jab with the tip of his knife. “You’re not Arthur. You’re not real.”
Stay reassuring, but firm. “I’m Arthur,” Arthur repeated. “Drop the shiv, Cobb.” Another step forward. Closer, still. Cobb took one step backwards. Threatened, the clinical part of Arthur noticed. Instinct warred against training, screamed that he wasn’t doing it right. Cobb didn’t need a law enforcement officer here right now. He needed…he needed…
One more step.
Cobb’s reserve shattered. He was shouting, crying out something, stabbing at Arthur with the shiv. Arthur blocked with his forearm, caught Cobb’s arm as it came down, and then disarmed him, hearing the shiv clatter to the ground. Damn it all, but Cobb hadn’t even wrapped the shiv in something to make it easier to hold. The metal had been rough, and Cobb’s hands were bleeding where he’d clenched his fingers too tightly around the shiv.
Lines of blood welled up, dark red in the light.
Godamnit, Arthur. What the hell are you doing?
More pain. Arthur glanced at his arm and realised dimly that Cobb had managed to catch him across the biceps as well. His fingers came away wet with fresh blood. “You’re going to be okay, Cobb,” he said. Kept saying that, even as the figure dropped to the ground, shaking. Racked with dry, convulsive sobs. Even as he carefully winced and crouched down next to Cobb. He kept up the steady stream of conversation, guessing that was what Cobb needed.
A friend. Not a law enforcement official. Don’t tell him you’re real. Prove it.
So Arthur just kept talking, and watching out to see if Cobb made any move for the shiv. He talked about the time Cobb had walked in on him in the shower. He talked about the time he’d made a mistake and swapped their drinks and they’d had a good laugh because Cobb hated any sugar or milk with his coffee and Arthur could only take coffee with enough sugar to cause diabetes. Their fights. When Cobb had pretty much started trying to push all of Arthur’s buttons, and then started getting in on Arthur’s personal life. The things they did with their spare time. How Cobb always knew where to find him, anyway, and how they always understood what the other meant.
How he always knew where to find Cobb when Cobb was off on his own.
Godamnit Cobb, why didn’t you tell me. Why didn’t you tell me about Mal. I trusted you, and I’d promised to help you. He talked about Vietnam, and a flat. A promise - not quite a promise, but the question had been real enough.
I need a touchstone, Arthur. Someone I can trust.
Yes, he’d said. Okay.
Gradually, Cobb calmed down, enough that Arthur realised he wasn’t shaking anymore. Enough that Arthur realised he wasn’t in a good state himself. He’d probably talked himself hoarse by now. Angrily, he rubbed at his eyes, until the world stopped blurring. He didn’t know when Cobb had shifted closer to him so they were all but pressing up against each other. Didn’t know when his hand had shifted to rest on Cobb’s shoulder.
There was something vulnerable in Cobb’s eyes now, something that Arthur had seen before, but only in flashes. Something he’d seen that day in Vietnam; sharp but fragile. Like porcelain.
Something of the old Cobb?
“You’re a mess,” Cobb said at last. His voice trembled only a little.
“I know,” Arthur agreed. He felt his shirt. The cloth clung to his skin, damp and sticky. He needed to call hospital security, he thought. At least this time, he just needed to go downstairs to get access to medical care. Down that ladder again.
“I’m sorry,” Cobb offered. “I….” he took a deep breath. “Sometimes, I think I that if I open my eyes, this…will just have been a dream.”
You’re not the only one, Arthur thought wryly. He said, “I know. I’m sorry.” Sorry for messing up. Sorry for being here too late. Maybe if he hadn’t been so content to sit back and wait for Cobb to tell him things - well. It took two people to build a bridge. Maybe he hadn’t been trying, too.
He pulled his hand away. Cobb caught his hand by the wrist, and held it.
“Don’t be,” he said quietly. Haltingly. “I remember…a little. I think. The day at the platform. I tried to kill myself. I swear I looked…I looked all over the platform. Trying to find…no, I think I was trying to make sure no one was there. There was no way anyone could have seen me. And then you came. You caught me. You stopped me.” Small, forlorn smile. An offering. “I said it then? You’re my touchstone?”
He wouldn’t have said that if he could remember the times Arthur had screwed up. Arthur felt the guilt, a leaden weight in his stomach. “No,” he said quietly. “You don’t remember.”
Cobb was shaking his head, eyes bright. “A touchstone,” he said firmly. “I trusted you then.” He reached out, lightly traced the pattern of scars on Arthur’s back. Arthur shivered. How the hell had he known those were there? “I trust you now.”
Arthur wasn’t sure what response to make to that. He reached for his pocket, managed to find his cell phone. Cobb shot him a quizzical look.
“Calling for medical help,” Arthur said lightly. “I think I need it.”
Something dark flashed across Cobb’s expression. “They’re going to put me back in there, aren’t they?” he asked. “Drugged. Restrained.”
“I’ll talk to them,” Arthur offered. He studied Cobb’s expression, wondered, only for a short while, why he always ended up doing this sort of thing. “I’ll be there.” A promise. One that he promised to keep, and was rewarded by the easing of Cobb’s frown. Trust was what Arthur saw there, a complete trust that almost made him ache, because he sure as hell didn’t deserve it.
So stick by your word this time, Arthur.
So he couldn’t fill in the blank spaces in his memory. Didn’t know about the truth of the undercover assignment, and likely wouldn’t. Didn’t know about possible inter-agency involvement in Cobb’s case. Probably pissed off Ellis and wouldn’t get to talk to Kerr after all.
Cobb still couldn’t remember much. Still had his own problems, and probably wasn’t out of the woods yet.
Still, feeling the warm weight of Cobb’s body pressed lightly against his shoulder, watching the fingers wrapped around his, Arthur gave in. Realised that maybe he’d given in all along. He could live with not knowing the answers to what had happened. So maybe he could live with this too. This whole keeping Cobb out of trouble thing. And maybe…well, whatever that something more in Cobb’s gaze had entailed. It was something that Arthur shied away from confronting, and yet reluctantly admitted that maybe that was what he craved. Reciprocation.
To his surprise, that sounded more than just okay. That sounded good.