FIC - Inception Reverse Bang with bunnyford

[croik]

Art Prompt Title: Untitled
Art link: Art Master Post
Artist: bunnyford

Fic Title: Poltergeist
Author: croik
Pairing(s): Gen
Rating: PG-13 for language and violence
Word Count: 7,000
Warnings: Anxiety and depression

Summary: After the inception, Robert can't stop dreaming about the man in the taxi.



Every night Robert has the same damn dream.

He dreams of pouring rain in a gray city. He dreams of car exhaust, and cheap upholstery, and a gun in his face. Sometimes the little details change but he always ends up in the back of a taxi, soaked through and annoyed, and there's a man settling into the back next to him.

"Sorry," he says. "I thought it was free."

"Well, it's not," says Robert, following his script as usual.

The stranger flashes him a grin. "Maybe we could share."

That grin. Always that little grin, that crinkle at the eyes, the wide, plush lips. It stands out amidst the somber city.

"Maybe not," says Robert. He turns toward the driver, but before he can get the rest of his lines out, the gun is in his face. Tonight, Saito pulls the trigger.

Robert wakes up gasping. He twists beneath the sheets, clammy and sweating, his head pounding. He can feel the bullet rattling around in his skull and it takes several minutes before he's able to calm down. Gradually, the room comes into focus around him. He's in a hotel again.

Robert is following up a valium with a glass of water when his phone rings. He doesn't have to check the caller before answering because he knows it's Peter. "It's the middle of the night," he says in lieu of a greeting.

"Yes, exactly," says Peter. "Where the hell are you?"

"A hotel." He wouldn't say which one even if he remembered. With a long sigh Robert drops into a chair and stretches his legs out. "What do you want?"

He can just imagine Peter in his home office, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Robert," Peter says slowly. "You can't keep disappearing on me like this."

"I didn't disappear. I had dinner with the Yaekers at the restaurant downstairs and didn't feel like driving across town, so I got a room." Robert is fairly sure that's what happened, anyway. "I'll be at the meeting bright and early, I promise."

"Are you sure you're ready for this? If you want to sit this one out and let me handle it, everyone will understand." Peter's voice lowers. "We all know how difficult it's been for you. You shouldn't push yourself so hard, Robert."

Robert closes his eyes. Peter sounds sincere, but he can't shake the sensation at the back of his mind that it's all a lie. "I'm just doing what I have to do, Uncle Peter," he says, and he means it. He doesn't have a choice.

"I know you think that, but..." Peter makes a strange, frustrated sound. "I'm worried about you."

"Me, too," says Robert, and he means it just as much. "I'll see you at the meeting. Good night." He hangs up and shuts his phone off just as it announces that Peter's trying to call back.

Robert throws himself back into bed, and with the help of the Valium, he sleeps.

He dreams the same damn dream.

This time, it lasts a little longer. Maybe the Valium wasn't a good idea after all. "There's five hundred dollars in the wallet," he tells the stranger next to him. "The wallet's worth more than that."

The stranger paws through Robert's ID and credit cards. He thumbs the cash but doesn't take any, though he looks tempted. When he slips his fingers beneath the side pocket Robert tenses, startled and angry, as he pulls out an old photograph.

"Is this you?" the stranger asks.

Robert continues to stare--this is new. He's off the script now, and he takes in a deep breath, anxious and hopeful and furious all at once. "Yes," he says, his breath stuttering.

The stranger smiles, slow and nostalgic, and then crushes the photo against his palm. His trimmed nails scratch the surface and tear it in places. Robert feels those blunt fingers around his heart and then a bullet pierces the glass behind him, killing him. Again.

This has been Robert's life for the past three weeks. He sleeps in short bursts, as long as he can until the dream starts up. Every night he gets into the taxi and meets a stranger with a familiar smile. Their conversation is more or less the same every time. Saito is always waiting in the front seat with a gun. Sometimes it goes on for a little longer, giving Robert hints of armed men in the streets, and squealing tires, and a broad body shoving him deeper into his seat, but he's never made it beyond. It's slowly driving him crazy.

There's something that comes next; he can feel it. The stranger is only the tip of the iceberg, the bait on the line, and if he wasn't getting his brain blown out twice a night he might be able to figure out what's waiting on the other end. It's pulsing at the furthest edge of his perception, dark and seething like an itching wound, and part of him is afraid to wish for it. Part of him is grateful for the bullets.

He wakes up again, and he's had enough for one night, so instead of pills he turns to caffeine. Mixed with the Valium it turns his hotel room into a buzzing cage, and he spends the rest of the night curled up in a chair, watching infomercials and counting ceiling tiles.

In the morning, Robert goes to the meeting. He announces that he's dissolving what remains of Fischer Morrow.

Everyone starts arguing at once. Peter does his best to keep order, but there wasn't any to begin with, and soon it's just a bunch of shouting that Robert can't really make out. He says he's not interested in handing the company over to anyone else. He doesn't want to keep going. He wants to start over in a business he can give a shit about, something his, something that will make him into the man he wants to be rather than what his father's made him. He wants these things because it's in the script for him to want them, but that part he doesn't say. They already think he's lost his goddamn mind and he's starting to think they might be right.

"They're not going to let you do this," Peter warns as he corners Robert in the bathroom half an hour later. "Do you know how many people are involved in this company? Our investors have rights, too. You don't get to pack up your toys and go home because you've had a few bad days and leave all of us in the cold."

Robert leans back against the door to a stall. "You're rich, Uncle Peter," he reminds Peter dully. "They all are. They will be even without Fischer Morrow."

"Robert, how can you be so...." Peter sighs and rubs his face with both hands. It takes him a long time to get his composure and even then his face is still red. "Listen. I know you're hurting. You miss your father." When Robert glares at him from beneath heavy eyelids, he changes tactics. "It was complicated between you, I know, really, I do. But this isn't helping you. In a few weeks you're going to look back at all of this and realize how much of a mistake you're making."

Robert lowers his gaze to the floor. "I'm just trying to do what I'm supposed to," he says. "So I can see what happens next."

Peter watches him for a long moment and then says, "I think you should see a doctor."

Robert shivers. "I'll think about it," he lies.

Peter waits a little longer, and when he doesn't get anything more, he shakes his head. "At the very least, you could shave," he says on his way out. "You look terrible."

Robert doesn't look up until he hears the bathroom door close. His reflection watches him from above the sink, haggard and whiskered and dead. He licks his lips and watches his second self do the same. "I need to be someone new," he says, and is eerily relieved to see the mirror mouthing the words back to him, as if there was a chance it might not. "I need to be my own man. It's what I want." He's told himself that so many times, sooner or later it's bound to become true.

It's a long day of fighting and legal jargon and accusations, and at the end of it, Robert is too tired to put up a resistance to his subconscious. He falls into his own bed in his own condo and manages shallow sleep for a while before the dream is back. The rain soaks his shoulders and he climbs into the taxi.

The stranger climbs in through the other door. "What," Robert says firmly, "are you doing?"

The stranger crooks an eyebrow. "I'm sorry. I thought it was free."

"No, I mean..." Robert turns to face him. "What are you doing? Why are you still here--what the hell do you want from me?"

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

"Who are you?" Robert tries again. "What are you--who the fuck are you?"

The stranger frowns, and he looks to the front. Saito leans around his seat with a gun in his hand. "Very amusing, Mr. Eames," he says, and then he pulls the trigger.

Robert wakes up and he knows the man's name is Eames.

Knowing that doesn't help much. It certainly doesn't stop the dreams from coming. For the next several days Robert's routine consists of readying for battle in the morning and collapsing in bed at night. Everything between is a blur. He fights how he is meant to fight, bold and convincing, and the world fights back. He watches himself as if from behind a sheet of glass. Soon the dreams feel more real than the façade of his life peeling away with every signed legal document. At least in the dreams he makes some progress.

Bullets crash through the taxi windows. This time Eames manages to shove him down in time, shielding his head with the broad span of his body. "I've got you," Eames says close to his ear. His breath is hot against Robert's skin. "Just stay down." At first, Robert doesn't understand. He reaches for the door of the taxi and is immediately killed by a bullet sheering through the body of the vehicle itself. The next night, he waits. Eames smothers him with his weight and returns fire against a horde of God-knows-what. The battle is short and chaotic and just when it seems like they've won, Robert winds up dead again. Sometimes he's not even sure how it's happened, only that he wakes up aching, hating Eames for not doing a better job of protecting him.

Robert visits his father's grave. The sun is heavy and the air humid, steaming the inside of his Armani. He can feel himself cooking as stares down at the headstone. "Are you doing this to me somehow?" he asks, shifting unsteadily on his feet, back and forth. "I'm trying to do just what you told me to do. So why are you doing this to me?" But Maurice isn't kind enough to even relay his intentions through his own animated corpse, so Robert leaves and goes back to war.

"Maybe we could share," Eames suggests.

"Maybe you could leave me the hell alone," Robert retorts.

Eames crushes into him. There aren't any bullets yet, but he pushes Robert down, covers and restricts him, and Robert's heart begins to pound. He can't breathe but he's too confused to struggle. He should be dead already. Any moment now, he'll be dead.

"There's so much more, you know," Eames says. "This is only the first level."

The taxi breaks way around them, and suddenly Eames' weight is gone, and Robert is sitting on a hotel barstool. The air feels pressurized and fake. Someone joins him, and it's Eames--he knows it's Eames--except it's a woman, sleek and blonde and leaning into him.

"I'm trying to tell you my story," she says. "But I don't think you're ready."

"I'm ready," Robert says immediately. "Please, just tell me what--" But then a man in a suit comes up behind him and puts a gun to his head. He wakes up panting.

Six weeks after his father's death, Robert signs the papers that will destroy Fischer Morrow forever. Rather than risk being accosted at home, he goes to a bar.

He can't even remember the last time he's been to one. He's done plenty of drinking lately, and even before his father's death he was never one to turn down a glass of champagne or even a shot of hard liquor. Most of that took place in classy house parties, private rooms in clubs, five star restaurants; he's never been one to sulk into a downtown bar, sit shoulder to shoulder with strangers and toss back full glasses of whiskey. It's a new and baffling experience. His life is being shot through with things he never thought he would do.

Robert's downtown, comfortably drunk and surrounded by people he's never met and will hopefully never see again. One or two cast him glances like they recognize him, and he hopes to God that no one is tweeting his location to overeager paparazzi. Mostly he's left alone, and he's glad. Every time he catches a smile out of the corner of his eye he imagines it belongs to plush lips and stubbled cheeks. He tries to rub the afterimages out of his weary eyes but they persist, and he ultimately decides the only cure is to drink so much that he passes out.

He's doing a fairly good job of that when a woman takes the stool next to him.

She's tall, lean, and very blond. Her lips are wide and red, and when she smiles at him her teeth flash, white and sharp like a vampire. Robert wonders if she's fed recently and is drunk enough that the thought doesn't bother him.

"Hello," she says.

Robert finishes off his drink. He's not sure how many he's had by now. "Do you know who I am?" he asks, watching her out of the corner of his eye.

"Um...no." She rests her chin on her palm and stares, studying him with amusement. "Should I?"

Robert transfers his drink to his left and offers his hand for her to shake. She does so, eyebrows raised as if she's humoring him. It's refreshing. "Robert," he introduces himself succinctly.

"Mary," she replies in kind.

She's familiar. Her faraway eyes, the sharp rise of her clavicles beneath the straps of her dress--Robert is sure he's seen her before, but he can't bring himself to ask. He doesn't know what he'll do if he presses her only to find out they met in a dream. Fucking dreams.

"Mary," he repeats, rolling the name off his tongue. "Mary, I'm going to be very honest with you." He leans closer. "I am very drunk."

Mary smiles. "I can see that."

"I am also very rich."

"Are you?"

"Yes." Robert goes to take a sip of his drink only to realize it's empty. He nudges the glass aside and, making the only smart decision of the night, passes on asking for another refill. "But maybe not for much longer. So if you want to sleep with me and get diamonds in the morning, tonight would be the night."

Mary blinks slowly. "Who did you say you were again?"

"I'm Robert." He pulls out his wallet and shows off his driver's license. "Robert Fischer. Fischer Morrow. Billionaire."

"Oh," says Mary. "Well, in that case..."

Mary takes him to her hotel. It's the kind of mistake Robert made only once in his youth before learning his lesson. He knows he's probably too drunk to even get it up at this point, and that in all likelihood Mary will just wait for him to pass out and root through his wallet to pay for the diamonds he's promised. He doesn't mind. Everything is dark and woozy and lovely, and maybe if he gets even halfway laid he won't get murdered in his own head tonight.

Robert sheds his jacket and falls onto the bed. Mary is just behind, pushing his back to the mattress, straddling his hips. She hikes her skirt up and lets Robert caress her soft thighs. When they kiss, he feels her flinch at the booze on his breath. From then on she stays out of its path, kissing his neck instead as she unbuttons his shirt. Robert closes his eyes and lets her work, tracing idle shapes into her knees with his fingertips.

"Am I boring you?" Mary asks, nibbling at the whiskers on his chin.

"I'm so drunk," is all Robert can think to say, and she laughs, pressing a kiss to the hollow of his throat.

Robert shivers. His fingers curl against her legs and for a moment he imagines that she weighs so much he can't breathe. But he's being foolish. Nothing's wrong.

Mary kisses him again. Her mouth is wide and soft, and her hands are deceptively strong. She rocks against Robert's hips and suddenly he imagines taxi leather pressing into his back. When he tries to sit up, to get away from it, Mary grabs his shoulders and forces him back down. "Relax," she says. "You can even just go to sleep, if you want. I'll take care of you."

Robert gulps, but no matter how much he tries to focus on Mary's slender waist, the press of her breasts, all he can think is that any moment she's going to kill him. Her voice rumbles down through him and he squirms, wondering if the pressure in the air is just his imagination. "Am I dreaming again?" he asks groggily.

Mary chuckles, and he's suddenly positive that he knows her from somewhere. "Yeah, baby," she says. "You're dreaming."

There's no fighting it, it seems. Robert sighs as he sinks into the mattress, giving up. "Okay," he grumbles. There's no escape and he almost wants to cry. "Okay, Eames. You win."

Mary goes rigid, her mouth hovering over Robert's left ear. "What?"

Robert still has his eyes closed, on the brink of unconsciousness, her knees still a canvas for his lazy fingertips. "Fucking dreams," he mutters distantly. "Fucking Eames."

Mary puts both hands to his chest and nearly bolts upright. "Did you just call me Eames?" she demands with sudden vehemence.

Robert blinks up at her. She looks angry, and he frowns, trying to remember if Eames has ever been angry with him. "I know it's you," he says, no longer caring if she or anyone else thinks him mad. All the edges are blurring together. "It's always you in my dreams."

"Son of a bitch!" Mary clamors off him and straightens her dress. "That asshole. I told him to stop using me in his jobs."

Robert pushes up on his elbows and watches as Mary storms across the room to her suitcase. "A little professional courtesy," she's growling as she yanks a silver suitcase out of it. "That's all I ask. I never forge him on a job--not anymore, anyway. Who the hell does he think he is?"

Robert sags against the headboard. He recognizes the silver case, but it's not until she tosses it onto the bed that it registers in his muddled brain. "That's a PASIV," he mumbles.

"Very good, Mr. Fischer." Mary pops it open and begins pushing buttons. "Now if you'll please sit still, we can get this over with in just a few short minutes."

She touches a needle to the inside of Robert's elbow. It stings, and the pain brings him much needed clarity. The pain of being shot in the dream didn't feel like this. Panic bursts in his chest and he slaps her hands away. "No--stop," he gasps, a spot of blood appearing on his arm as he drags himself off the bed. "I'm awake!"

Mary curses and gives chase. When Robert tries to get to his feet, she kicks his knees out from under him. He sprawls across the cheap carpet, scraping his wrists and face, and loses his breath to a kick in the ribs. While he's gagging and pawing, Mary takes him by the shoulder and rolls him onto his back.

"Shh, Robert," she soothes. She pulls his head back by the hair and reaches down the front of her dress. "It's not going to hurt."

She pulls out a long, white pill. Robert struggles, but she's strong, and she smashes the pill into his tightly pressed lips. A yank on his hair smacks the back of his skull against the floor and he can't help but gasp, allowing the bitter drug into his mouth. Mary clamps both hands over his face until he swallows.

"Stay put," she says and then climbs off of him.

Robert coughs, trying to expel the drug, but he can already feel it disintegrating down his throat. His hands grow heavy and numb. "Please don't," he says, trying in vain to get up. "I can't--I can't do this anymore."

Mary sets the PASIV down on the floor next to him. As she finishes setting it up, Robert tries one more time to paw her away from it. "You don't want to go in my dreams," he says. "You'll go crazy."

To his surprise, Mary stops. She faces him with what might be honest concern. "What do you mean?"

"You can't." Robert struggles to get the explanations out, but the room is growing dark and almost liquid around them, and he has no time. "Please, don't. My mind's fucked enough already. I can't do this anymore."

Mary leans over him, smoothing his hair away from his face. "Can't do what?"

"I can't...." Robert's eyes roll back as he reaches into empty air. "I'm supposed to be someone..."

Robert dreams of the fucking taxi again.

This time, he survives the shootout. This time, he ends up in an abandoned warehouse, handcuffed to a radiator. Peter is chained up beside him and at first he is relieved by the appearance of a familiar face. But it's not Peter; it's Eames again. From somewhere far outside himself, Robert knows that it's Eames.

"Why are you doing this to me?" he asks, his eyes stinging.

"Robert," says Peter-Eames, "I'm trying to help you."

"How? By driving me crazy?" The handcuff bites into Robert's wrists as he twists to face his almost-uncle. "Fuck you! I've done everything I was supposed to. I destroyed everything! I'm losing everything! How can I make myself a new person if you won't get the fuck out of my head? Get out!" He lunges at Eames and gets his one free hand around his throat. "Get out of my mind!"

Eames crumbles beneath him. He doesn't put up a fight, and when Robert realizes how pointless this is, he sags on top of him. The strength passes out of him and he surrenders a cold, hard sob against Eames' chest. "I'm trying to do what you want," he says, the words bubbling out of him from a pit he can't identify. "Why isn't it enough? If you have something to tell me, just tell me already!"

"I'm trying," says Eames. He wraps his arm around Robert's shoulders and keeps him close. "You're the one that's stopping me, Robert. I'm trying to tell you the truth. It's you that doesn't want to hear it."

Two kidnappers stalk into the room with masks over their faces. Robert closes his eyes and waits for the shots.

He wakes up in the hotel. A part of him thought he would be in his condo, that Mary was just another crazed phantom of his imagination, but he's stretched out on the floor with a pillow under his head, and Mary is sitting close to his hip. He tries to rub his eyes but his arms are still too heavy to lift. His mouth is dry and his voice cracks. "Did you do it?"

Mary crawls closer, so that he can see her face when she leans over him. "No," she admits. When he glances to the side, he can see the closed PASIV leaning against the bed. "I'm not going into the mind of someone who's delusional."

"Wish I could say that," Robert mutters. He takes a deep breath and tries to think clearly, but his head is pounding. "Who are you really?"

Mary hesitates. "I was hired to check up on you," she says. "There are a lot of people wanting to know what's going on in that pretty little head of yours, Robert Fischer." She sweeps her fingers through his hair, almost apologetic in her attentions. "It'd be faster to put you under and see for myself, but maybe we'll both be better off if you just tell me."

"Are you talking about my company?"

"And everything else." She frowns. "You have seen me before, haven't you? In your dreams?"

"Yes." Robert doesn't want to think about it too deeply at the moment, but it suddenly occurs to him what all this means, and his heart begins to pound. "Yes, but you were Eames. Everyone in my dreams is Eames."

Mary hisses. "Asshole. I hate it when he forges me." She sweeps her hair back. "He never gets me right."

Robert's hands are still numb but he manages to catch her wrist anyway. "Then he's real," he says, his voice almost cracking. "Eames--he's real, he exists?"

"Well, of course he..." Mary cuts herself off and her eyes widen a little. She leans back.

"What?" Robert's hand seizes around hers and he manages, with great effort, to sit up. Fortunately, the wall is nearby, and it gives him something to lean against. "What is it?" he demands. "If you know what's happening to me, you have to tell me!"

"I don't know," Mary says quickly. "I don't know what he did to you." She edges closer. "But tell me everything."

So he does. Robert closes his eyes and relates everything, every detail of the dreams he can remember. It's not much, in the end, but Mary takes it in. He can't tell if she's fascinated or sympathetic or even disgusted by it, but it doesn't matter. If feels better than he thought it would, telling someone the truth.

"You said someone hired you to check up on me," Robert says once it's all out. "Who?"

Mary scoffs. "I can't tell you that."

"I gave you everything you need, didn't I?" When Mary tries to edge away, he snatches her arm again. "If you're going to get paid for telling someone I'm crazy, I deserve to know who it is."

"That's not how this works," she says, shoving his hand off. He isn't able to stop her from climbing to her feet. "And you're not crazy. You're being haunted by a projection."

Robert grabs at the wall behind him and begins the process of getting to his feet. "A what?"

"A projection--part of your subconscious. Your own subconscious." Mary packs the PASIV back into her suitcase. "Whatever Eames did to you, it left an imprint, and your subconscious mind doesn't know how to deal with it. There's nothing I can do to fix that."

Robert at last makes it upright but keeps all of his weight braced against the wall. "How can I find Eames?"

"You can't." Mary begins gathering the rest of her things to be packed. "He's not the sort of man that can be found unless he wants to be."

"But you can find him, can't you?" Robert persists. He keeps both hands to the wall as he slides toward the door. "You can set up a meeting."

Mary laughs. Her back is turned, so she doesn't notice when Robert blocks the only exit. "I don't like the bastard, but I'm not turning him in."

Robert pats himself down and realizes he still has his phone on him. He keys in a number, and the quiet tones finally alert Mary. She glances over her shoulder and, seeing what he's up to, slowly turns to face him. "You're really going to call the cops on me?" she asks, unimpressed.

"Give me Eames," says Robert, "or I'll make do with you."

Mary eyes him, but when she takes a step forward Robert hits send. "Cops can't catch me," she says, but he can see her growing tense.

Robert scowls. "Who the hell do you think I am? You don't need cops when you're a billionaire." He lifts the phone to his ear. "It's Robert Fischer," he says into it, his voice the calmest it's been in a long time. "I need you to take care of someone for me."

Mary clenches her fists at her sides. "Hitmen? Really?" she taunts.

"She's some kind of dream extractor," Robert continues. "Blonde woman, pretty. Says her name is Mary but it's probably a cover. Does that sound like anyone you know?"

"You're not serious," says Mary.

"If you can come down to the hotel with your boys, I'll stall her long enough that you can catch her on the way out." Robert locks eyes with her. "Keep it clean, if you can. I'll send you her picture."

Mary rolls her eyes and starts forward, but then Robert holds the phone up toward her, and she stops. Her eyes flash with real fright. "All right, fine," she snaps, and she turns back to get her phone out of the suitcase she just packed. "I can get you Eames. Just stop with the hitman talk, all right? I have enough of those on my tail as it is."

Robert hangs up on his own answering machine and relaxes. "Send him a message," he says. "Tell him you have a client looking to hire. I want to meet him on Friday, at the restaurant downstairs, at six p.m."

Mary taps a message into her phone. "You do realize it's not the real Eames in your head, don't you?" she asks. "It's you that's doing this to you. Turning Eames in isn't going to fix you."

"I know." Robert steps away from the door. "But it doesn't matter."

Mary shows him her phone to prove that she's sent the message, then grabs up her jacket and suitcase. "No hard feelings, okay Mr. Fischer?" she says on her way out.

As soon as the door is closed behind her, Robert calls hotel security and relates her description, then passes the same to the cops. He doesn't really think they'll catch her, but he feels better about it than letting her walk away.

Robert doesn't sleep at all leading up to Friday. The morning of the big day, he cleans up. He showers, and shaves, and dresses in his best suit. His fortune is in flux and most of his assistants are already gone, but he still has a driver to get him to the restaurant at six. His stomach is in his throat, and as he waits out of view for his guest to arrive, he's certain several times over that he won't make it out of this confrontation without vomiting. Maybe he won't even make it out alive. He digs his fingernails into the meat of his hand over and over to remind himself he's awake.

Finally, Eames arrives. He's shown to a seat near the center of the restaurant, and Robert hangs back a moment, just watching. He looks just like the man that's been haunting Robert for weeks, but there's something different about him. Something light and easy and shallow. Robert isn't sure what to make of it, but he does manage to continue breathing as he crosses the room and takes a seat across from him.

Eames glances up and goes pale. It's a well-deserved victory, seeing Eames' blatant shock and apprehension. His eyes dart about the room, marking possible avenues of escape.

"Don't bother," says Robert, his voice stronger than he imagined it could be given the situation. "My security is all over the place. There's nowhere for you to go."

Eames' lips twitch as he looks back to Robert. If he's caught onto the bluff already, he doesn't show it. "So," he says, easily, trying to fake like he wasn't a deer in the headlights just seconds ago. "Mary sold me out, then?"

"She needed some coaxing." Robert places both hands on the table. "You did something to my mind, didn't you?"

Eames stares steadily back, weighing his options. Robert can see him forming lies and then abandoning them. "It's what extractors do," Eames says at last. "Take it up with my employer."

"And your employer's name is...?"

Eames smirks. "I don't sell out as easily as some."

Robert clenches his jaw. He considers trying to bluff Eames the same way he did Mary, but Eames' eyes are sharp, his guard firmly up. Robert considers a lot of things in that instant. He wants to upend the table in frustration, he wants to grab Eames by the throat, wrestle him to the ground, demand answers. He wishes he had a gun on him so he could erase Eames from the world. But most of all, he wants to know.

"How do I get you out of my mind?" he asks quietly.

Even the guise of good humor falls away from Eames' expression. "What?"

"You're still in my mind," Robert says, frustrated. "Every dream, every night. Every fucking night." His fists tighten until trembling on the table. "I just want you out. Just tell me what I have to do."

Eames narrows his eyes, but he must realize that Robert's not trying to trick him, because he gets that same look of concern as when Mary decided not to dream with him. "What do I do in your dreams, exactly?"

"You kidnap me." Robert doesn't want to go through the whole story again. Doubt is already threading through him, making him wonder if even this conversation isn't part of the dream, too. He's even distantly tempted to follow the same old script. "In a taxi. You say you're trying to show me something, but then you say I'm not ready for it, and then I end up dead. Do you understand what you've done to me?" He leans forward, and his attempts to keep his voice down only make him sound more hysterical, even to his own ears. "If there's something you want to tell me, just tell me for God's sake! I can't give you want you want if I don't know what it is!"

Eames motions for him to quiet, and casts a wary smile at the few pairs of eyes the other diners turning their way. "Calm down."

"Calm down?" Robert shudders and again considers upending the table. He's getting nowhere. He can feel his skull caving in around him--how many more bullets can he take before his mind is gone for good, he wonders. He's aching and desperate and for once he wishes Eames would just smile at him like he does in the dream. At least that Eames is willing to pretend his intentions are good.

"Please just stop," Robert begs, his shoulders hunching, his head tipping down. "All I want is the truth. So get on with telling me already, or get the hell out of my mind. Please." He chokes on too much emotion and is ashamed, but he can't help himself. "Please, tell me. I can't do this anymore."

Eames is quiet for several minutes as Robert struggles to compose himself. When Robert finally manages to lift his head again, Eames looks more like his dream self than ever; there's something distant and haunted in his face, a kind of understanding. He knows exactly what Robert's talking about. It takes him a while longer, however, before he's able to take a breath and speak again.

"You told all this to Mary, did you?" he asks.

"Yes." Robert wipes his napkin across his mouth. "I told her everything."

"And what did she say about it?"

"She said..." Robert strains to remember; between being drunk and drugged, the memory isn't exactly clear. "She said I'm haunted by my projection. Of you."

Eames considers that for long enough that Robert almost demands a response out of him. Finally, he rubs his whiskers and says, "That wasn't part of the plan." Before Robert can gather the strength to strangle him, he adds, "But there might be a way to fix it."

"Tell me," Robert says immediately.

"You listen to what it has to say," says Eames, as if he already knows exactly what that is. "Let it run its course."

"I've been trying!"

"Or," Eames goes on, "you kill it."

Robert feels the blood rush out of him. "What?"

"Kill it," Eames repeats. "In the dream, of course--not here." He gives a half-hearted chuckle. "Your dreams are a direct reflection of your subconscious mind. It's like a metaphor. If you want me out of your mind...kill me."

Robert leans back in his chair. It's not the answer he expected and it leaves him cold more than hopeful. After all the bullets he's tasted, he can't quite wrap his mind around firing one. He licks his lips. "You say that like it's so simple," he murmurs.

"It is," says Eames. "It's your mind, Mr. Fischer. If you want it back...it's up to you."

Eames pushes up from the table. He moves slowly, as if expecting Robert's security to rush in on him, or maybe he's just humoring Robert at this point. He rounds the table and sets a warm, heavy hand on Robert's shoulder. "For what it's worth," he says, "I did the best I could to make this easy on you."

Robert stares down at the table. "You think I'm going to just let you walk away?"

"You think you can stop me?" Eames counters. He lets his hand drop. Robert lets him walk away.

Robert goes home. There are several messages from Peter on his phone but he doesn't listen to them. He strips down and goes straight to bed, and after an hour of staring at the ceiling in anxiety and doubt, he finally resorts to sleeping pills. They do the job and before he knows it, he's in the taxi again.

Eames climbs in with him. He's not smiling this time, as if he knows what's coming. "I'm sorry," he says, his voice dull with bitter regret. "I thought it was free."

Robert pulls a handgun out of his suit. He's never fired one in his life, but this is his dream, and he figures all he has to do is pull the trigger anyway. His hand clenches around the metal until his knuckles are white. "I want this to be over," he says strongly. "This is my mind. I'm taking it back."

"I want you to have it," says Eames. "That's what this is about."

Robert cocks the hammer back, and the gun gets heavier. He's shivering inside his expensive suit as he turns toward Eames and presses the muzzle into his chest. "I'm going to kill you, so that you'll be gone. That's how this works, right? Once you're dead, you have to leave me alone."

"If that's what you want," says Eames.

Robert gulps. He wills himself to pull the trigger. He wants to. "You said that I could let this run its course," he finds himself saying instead. "I can get to the end."

Eames blinks slowly. "Yes."

"What's at the end?"

"The truth."

Robert takes in a deep breath and holds it for several seconds. He can feel Saito shifting in the front seat and strangers in combat gear creeping closer. "Show me. I want to know the truth." He lowers the gun. "I'm ready."

The taxi strips away. Rainy streets and rusty warehouses and hotel bars flash past his eyes like stop motion frames and then everything is cold and white and on the verge of collapse. Robert and Eames stand in front of a slab of black iron stabbed through with gears and electronics. Outside, a war is raging. Inside, a tomb awaits.

"This is where I stood," says Eames. He's holding Robert's hand, and it ought to be the least comforting thing in the world, but Robert clings to it. "I watched you go inside. And I was thinking...'My God. I hope he learns the truth someday.'"

Robert can't take his eyes off the door. A terrible fear grips his heart and he feels as if he's standing at his father's grave. "Are you talking about the real Eames?"

"You heard me," Eames continues. "This deep in the dream, everyone's mind is the same. We can hear each other without knowing it." He faces Robert. "We leave things behind without meaning to. Sometimes we leave parts of ourselves in each other."

Robert takes in a halting breath. "I don't understand."

"Yes you do." Eames smiles at him. "I am you, so if I know the truth, so do you. It's just beyond that door." He lets go of Robert's hand and touches his back instead, urging him forward. "Go ahead, Robert. Deep down, you already know what we did to you. It's there for you to see, if you want."

Robert steps to the door. He passes his fingertips over the keypad and isn't surprised when he remembers exactly what code he needs. He's frightened, and when his hand shakes against the numbers, it's almost a relief: he already knows what's behind this door. Only fear has held him back all this time. With a deep breath, he punches in the code, and the door grinds open.

His father is dying in his bed, but before Robert steps inside to meet him, he turns to Eames one more time. "You'll be gone after this, won't you?" he asks. "For good?"

"Yes," Eames replies. "I only wanted you to know the truth."

"Then...goodbye."

Robert takes in that slow smile one more time. Whatever Eames says, he knows he won't be able to forget him. A mark has been left on him that he can never erase, but at least he now has a chance of fighting back, and some tiny part of him is grateful for that much.

Eames turns to leave. "Goodbye."

Robert steps into the vault.