Inception Big Bang: Breaking and Entering (Part 2/2) (R)
Title: Breaking And Entering
Author darkseraphim21
Artist: ruins_of_sodom
Word Count: 8, 975 (Part 2), 16,965 (total)
Rating: R
Pairing: Eames/Robert
Warnings: Mild sexual content, nudity, adult language, violence, character death(s)
Read Part One Here!
Summary: "Recruited" by Robert to form a counter-offense against inception and the team behind it, Eames finds himself biting off more than he can chew with his feisty new employer. While Cobb and his team prepare for their inception on Robert, Eames and Fischer find themselves testing the boundaries of their complicated relationship. Used to getting a job done, quickly and efficiently, Eames is disturbed by just how much he wants to protect Robert.
Again, much love and thanks to ruins_of_sodom for his help and his beautiful artwork. The artwork is embedded, but check it out here. <3
Also, thanks to kick_back_80s for beta'ing!
Part Two
Mombasa, Kenya
The room was dark except for a small bulb that hung from the ceiling, swinging back and forth as a fan churned loudly in the corner. Any light afforded by the bulb was dim at best, and Cobb traced the his own shadow up the wall as he sat across from the figure in front of him. He could smell marijuana on the air, and it seeped through his pores and untethered his thoughts.
"You're looking for the Forger," the man across from him said. His voice was thickly accented and emphysematic, and he coughed into his fist before continuing. "He was here a few weeks back. Everyone liked him, no one trusted him. Smelled like trouble."
"That'd be him," Cobb agreed.
"Took off with some fancy white boy," the man said. He chuckled softly; this threw him into another coughing fit, longer and deeper than the first. "Australia, so I heard. Could be I know how you could get into contact with him. Could be I forgot, though."
Cobb reached into the breast of his coat and took out his wallet. "What's your memory worth?" Cobb asked.
"Ten thousand," the man wheezed.
"Dollars?" Cobb asked.
"No, sunflower seeds," the man said.
"You'll get your money," Cobb sighed. "Tell me what you know."
"Seems like a lot of people want this Forger," the man murmured, "You know why that is?"
"He's good at what he does," Cobb said, "Tell me what you know."
"Sydney, so I heard. Fancy boy he left with talked some about setting him up in a nice apartment. Could be one of my boys found out where."
"I need a number," Cobb said, "Not an address. Is there any particular reason you thought you'd need this information?"
"No one trusted him," the man repeated, leaning forward in his chair. It creaked loudly under his weight. "I don't ask you about your work, Mr. Cobb....You'd be wise not to ask about mine."
"A number," Cobb urged, suddenly very aware of the fact that he couldn't see a goddamn thing in that room, that he could only feel how heavy and damp the air was. The marijuana was starting to dull his senses, a dangerous thing considering who was hunting him and how little time he had to get away.
Someone had gotten to Eames before him. Cobb had no idea who, but it was obvious that Eames had gone willingly. Cobb had never known him to be strong-armed into a job before.
He could only hope that Eames would feel a certain obligation to assist him.
Cobb was fairly sure he was screwed.
****
The phone rang at a quarter to four in the morning.
Eames had been expecting the call for more than a week, sure that whomever was courting Robert would eventually find a way to track him down. He thought there could be a number of voices he might hear when he answered, a thousand different people who might fall on him in a time of need, mostly out of desperation. But still, he thought the most likely candidate would be Cobb. It was a gut feeling, and Eames had always trusted his gut.
"Hello?"
"I want to say first that I'm glad I finally found you. Also, you're a shit, Eames."
Eames laughed, and he felt Robert shift against him. Likely the man hadn't been expecting him to laugh when the call finally came. He wanted Eames to lure Cobb to them, but he also wanted Eames to be cold and mechanical when it came to his dealings with the man. Eames had never been built that way, though, and if Cobb noticed an iciness to his demeanor, he'd hang up and count his losses before Eames even knew what the hell he was up to.
"I would ask how you got this number," Eames said, "But of course I know how resourceful you are. So tell me what you wanted, Cobb. It's early on this side of the world."
"First you answer my question," Cobb redirected, "What are you even doing on that side of the world, Eames?"
It was a fair question, one that Eames had anticipated, and one that he had never quite come up with an answer to. The truth was impossible, and he knew that. Had the circumstances been different, the truth still would have been impossible. Eames much preferred to formulate his own brand of truth. He had heard that if a man repeated a lie enough it would become his truth. There was a certain kind of poetry to that belief.
"Didn't know I needed a reason to take a vacation," Eames said.
"Your life is a vacation," Cobb said, not unkindly. He sighed into the receiver, and Eames could imagine him rubbing his temple to try and ward off a migraine that was nothing more than a slight throbbing behind his eyes. It had been a long time since Cobb had taken a vacation, obviously, probably longer since he'd gotten laid. Something had to give, Eames thought, or Cobb was apt to turn up dead. Stress was a killer, particularly for people in their business.
It had a habit of dulling their razor-sharp skills. With Cobol hunting him, Cobb didn't have much room for maneuvering as it was. Eames wanted to tell him to relax, but the best he could do was wait for Cobb to say something. The silence stretched between them, over the sea and between the continents.
"You know I wouldn't call you unless I needed something," Cobb said, reluctantly. He had never been one to swallow his pride. "This isn't something I really want to talk about over the phone, though."
"You're free to come and see me," Eames said, feeling a small twinge of regret at the words. He didn't want to be malicious, least of all towards Cobb, but there was nothing he could do about it. Cobb wouldn't come because he knew. He knew already, and this phone call was nothing but a desperate attempt. Eames hated himself, just a little, for mocking the man's vulnerability.
"Tell me what you know about inception," Cobb said, voice clipped and icy. The pleasantries were apparently over.
"Inception," Eames said. Robert pulled away from him when he heard the word, sitting on the edge of the bed. "What would you want to know about inception, mate? The fact that it's bloody dangerous to even think about, or the fact that it's damn near impossible?"
"That word doesn't really exist in my vocabulary, Eames," Cobb said, "Maybe I shouldn't be asking you about inception. Maybe I should just be asking if you're willing to help me or not."
"Oh, well, I'm not sure about that," Eames evaded, "It's been a busy time for me, you understand--"
"I wasn't born yesterday," Cobb snapped, "What the hell are you doing out there, Eames? Who got to you? Either you're in trouble, or you're causing trouble."
"I really don't know what you're talking about. Back to the subject of inception...don't even try it. I'm telling you, it's dangerous business. It's dangerous even to think of it."
"Eames--"
"You know me," Eames said, "I'm a man who's familiar with odds. The odds are my life, yeah? So just trust me when I say the odds for pulling off inception are about the same as your odds of being struck by lightning twice."
"The odds don't matter," Cobb said. There was something off about his voice. Eames couldn't quite put his finger on it. Cobb sounded determined, which was nothing new, but there was a hollowness to his words and his voice. Mechanical, in a way, like he had taken his hands from the wheel a long while ago and left himself up to chance.
Chance was a dangerous thing, too.
"What matters is that I'm going to do this," Cobb continued, "With or without your help."
"What's the job, exactly?" Eames asked. "I'm not agreeing to it just yet, mind you, but inquiring minds want to know."
"You don't get anything from me until you agree to be on board," Cobb said. "You know better than that, Eames."
Fuck, he was as smart as ever.
"Let me rephrase that," Eames said, "Why would you accept this kind of job?" What he really wanted to ask was, Who bought you?, but there was no chance Cobb would answer that either.
"Let me ask you something," Cobb said, "Who did you run off with?"
"What--"
"You made a lot of friends over here," Cobb said, "Like most of your 'friends' they sold you out for the right price."
"Like most of my friends they're talking out of their ass," Eames said, "I didn't run off with anyone." Eames glanced at Robert. For some reason, he knew the man was smiling. Impossible to know from the back of his head, but he did know.
"I need an answer," Cobb said.
The conversation was completely fucked. Eames had long since lost control of it. With anyone else he could have redirected them, steered them in the right direction, sweet talked them into giving him the information he wanted. With Cobb, though, none of his usual tactics worked. The man was just too goddamn smart and familiar with his strategies.
"I guess that'd be a no," Eames said.
Cobb hung up without another word. Eames sat there with the phone against his ear for a few minutes, reflecting on how spectacularly shitty the experience had been. He had learned nothing, but his suspicions had been right. He knew that it was Cobb on the job, and that meant that Robert was in a bit of trouble.
Cobb, too, was damn good at what he did.
"You didn't learn anything," Robert said. Eames wasn't sure if the man meant it as a question or an accusation.
"No," Eames sighed. "It was a long shot, love."
Robert laughed, with little humor. "You'll be honest with me, won't you?"
"Sure."
He looked at Eames over his shoulder, pale eyes more naked than Eames had ever seen them. Robert was afraid. For the first time since they had met, his fear was palpable, coming off of him in waves. "Am I completely fucked?"
"Not completely," Eames said with a smile, "Just mostly."
****
Time was running out. It was not something Eames knew, but something he felt. Eames had always prided himself on his ability to sense things, but he had never relied solely on his gut before. Circumstances were different, however, and he knew that Cobb was preparing himself. A week, a month, surely no longer than that.
Eames noticed that Robert had been spending most of his time elsewhere lately. It struck him as strange that Robert would want to be alone now of all times. They were rapidly approaching the jumping off point -- for want of a better term -- and Eames wanted Robert where he could see him, preferably at all times.
When he asked the man where he disappeared to, Robert dismissed him. “Nowhere important,” Robert would lie, all the while refusing to meet Eames’ eyes. “Just business, you understand?”
He understood, but that didn't mean he approved. If it was ‘business’ that Robert was attending to, why didn't he bring Eames along? It obviously wasn't that he didn't trust Eames, more that he didn't want to reveal what he was doing until he was absolutely sure it was necessary. Which meant that Eames couldn't trust him. Either they were going to be straight with one another (the terminology managed to bring a wry smile to Eames’ face despite the importance of the situation) or the entire thing was off.
There were many ways to make Robert confess what he was doing on his little trips. At first, Eames tried being direct, demanding Robert tell him what he was up to. When that earned him nothing more than a little smile from Robert, Eames resorted to dirtier tactics. There was a bit of skin, surely no larger than an inch, just behind Robert’s ear, that, when kissed, caused the man to vibrate with the most delicious shudders.
Eames kissed and sucked that inch for nearly ten minutes until Robert was nothing more than melted butter in his arms. And then he whispered to him, “I'd like to know where you go off to, love.”
“Mmm, chemist,” Robert murmured, his voice sounded almost inebriated. His arms wound around Eames’ neck.
“Ahh. That wasn't so hard, was it? You could have told me that. I was worried you were planning on sticking a knife in my vitals.”
“I've got something better for your vitals,” Robert said, speech still inaudibly slurred. His hand fumbled with his trousers, fingers slipping over the zipper. Eames chuckled and swatted his hands away, undoing Robert’s trousers before he managed to hurt himself.
“That’s awfully vulgar of you,” Eames said, “I’m kind of shocked, Mr. Fischer.”
“On your back,” Robert said, ignoring Eames’ mocking. He was in no mood, apparently.
Or rather, he was in the wrong kind of mood.
****
The chemist was necessary.
It was not only that the chemist was necessary, but that tracking down Cobb’s chemist was. The person Cobb was using to put them under, to actually let them enter Fischer’s subconscious, would be vital to their plans.
Dream sharing was a tricky business, not least of all because the actual dose of the stuff that put them under would have to be powerful enough to last, but not so powerful that they might overdose or be lost in the dream. A strong kick was good enough... usually.
What Eames wanted was a chemist with the ability to put some under deep, and provide others with a lighter dose. He had known, the minute he had found out it was Cobb attempting inception, that his man would be Yusuf.
Eames had had some dealings with the man, had found him to be a fairly easy-going gent. Robert needn’t have resorted to such stealthy tactics, actually. Had he asked Eames, the entire thing would have been cleared up in a matter of minutes. Still, he had managed to locate Yusuf without Eames' assistance, and with the right amount of pressure (an ungodly sum of money that Robert was too embarrassed to even tell Eames) Yusuf had agreed.
“He told me there is a way for the dosage to vary, even in that kind of environment. It’ll take some doing, but he assured me he can manage it. Didn't sound too worried about betraying his employer, either. No loyalty among thieves, I suppose.”
“Not thieves,” Eames corrected, for what felt like the millionth time. “I told you. They’re not stealing anything, they're leaving something behind. Again, darling, it’s closer to breaking and entering than actual thievery.”
“He told me something else,” Robert said, ignoring Eames’ condescension. Likely they had spent so much time together that he no longer even noticed. “He told me that we’d better be careful; Cobb’s formed himself an extremely skilled team. O Great and Powerful Eames or not, he’s managed to do some excellent recruiting.”
“Bollocks,” Eames muttered, throwing himself face down on the bed. Theatrics, of course, but the result was what he wanted. Robert laid down beside him, stroking his fingers from the small of Eames’ back to the nape of his neck. Perfect.
“Not surprised,” Eames said, voice muffled against the bed. “He always had the luck of the Devil. Or else he’s just bloody smart. I don’t think so though. In this business, luck is always better.”
“Either way,” Robert said, “We’ll be ready. I trust you more than anyone he might have found.”
“Aww, listen to you.”
“I know what makes a man like you jump through hoops,” Robert whispered, breath tickling Eames’ ear.
“Mmm, yeah,” Eames agreed, laying his cheek against the bed. “That cute little ass of yours.”
“Oh, please,” Robert chuckled. “I don't have the narcissism to think my body has anything to do with it. Money, though. Or a promise of a second chance. I can play on your pride a lot easier than I can your horniness.”
“Aww, you're an ass,” Eames muttered. “Brilliant.”
“Shrewd,” Robert corrected. “That’s what a businessman has to be, right?”
“Also practical,” Eames said. “There’s always practicality. A businessman is nothing if he doesn't think about all of his options.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you don't have to get on a plane.”
“My father's body is going to Los Angeles. You're suggesting I don't need to be with it...him...when it, when he--”
“You're getting frustrated,” Eames said. The corner of his lips turned up in a crooked smile. He smoothed Robert’s hair back from his forehead like he was some kind of disconsolate child. He could feel from the way Robert fidgeted against him that he didn't appreciate it much. “Your father was an ass. A grand ass. The grandest ass of all the grand asses there have ever been.”
“You didn't know my father,” Robert whispered.
“You told me all about him, without telling me,” Eames said. “You’re an open book, darling.”
“I still don't see your point--”
“The point I am so elegantly trying to make is that you don’t have to go. There are people who could do that for you. What's the point of it? You get there and there’ll be all of these people around, trying to coddle you. Or worse, pretending you don't exist. Even in death, Maurice Fischer knows how to make an entrance and steal the show.”
“I wish you'd just stop,” Robert said, pulling away from Eames. “I wish you'd just shut up about things you don't understand.”
“I wish you'd stop playing the martyr and listen to me,” Eames said, grabbing Robert’s shoulders, forcing the man to stay put. Robert tried to fight him, weakly, but ended up just sitting there with his head down. “I’m not trying to hurt you,” Eames murmured, softening his grip on Robert. “What I’m trying to do is tell you that your life is your life.”
Robert refused to look at him. He had spent his entire life as the spoiled, snarky, slightly bratty child of a very wealthy, very powerful man. He had played that part so long, maybe he didn't know he could be anything else. Eames felt a little sorry for him. He also felt like shaking some sense into his pretty head.
“Maybe that’s what it's all about,” Eames said, “Not living your life for him anymore. But if you want to get on that plane, if you want to surrender yourself to inception just to prove a point, I’ll be with you.” He leaned in close to Robert, forcing the man's chin up. “Money is a great incentive. So is the promise of a second chance. But I could say being in love with you is a better incentive. Sort of. It’s fifty-fifty at least.”
“You’re a shit,” Robert said.
“That language is just uncalled for. Look at me, pouring my heart out to you, and that's what you say.” Eames clicked his tongue and frowned seriously. “You're a bully, that’s what you are.”
“You don't love me,” Robert said. Eames looked for some kind of sign that he was, in fact, being stubborn and not just an unfeeling ass. But no, Robert honestly didn't believe him. Well, wasn't that perfect. The one time he decided to tell the truth.
“Don't get on that plane,” Eames said. If Robert couldn't believe him, that was beside the point. The last thing Eames wanted to see was Robert heading into something that was completely over his head. “Do whatever you like otherwise. Toss me out of here, get your underwear in a bunch, throw a hissy fit. But don’t get on that plane. Your father's dead. He can’t control your life anymore.”
Robert’s fist connected with Eames’ belly. That was funny. Eames had thought Robert would have slapped him. He seemed the type. Anything to be overly dramatic. But no, he punched like a championship boxer. Or at least that was what it felt like.
“You don't love me,” Robert repeated. “Any person who loved me would never say that to me. God, I’m such an idiot. I thought you'd actually help me. You.”
“Robert--” Eames tried to say more, but Robert really did have a mean jab, and Eames was having a little trouble catching his breath. Besides, Robert was leaving, not even bothering to throw on a robe or snag his trousers from the foot of the bed. He walked naked to the door, long, gangly limbs looking absolutely perfect.
Eames hated him. He hated him so much he fucking loved him, and if the little prince couldn't believe that, he was an idiot.
“You could never love someone, because you could never trust someone,” Robert told him. It suddenly felt a few degrees colder in the room. “You’re the most heartless sonofabitch I've ever met,” Robert said. He left and slammed the door behind him.
He took all the air in the room with him.
****“I’m not going,” Robert said.
Eames could focus just enough to see his shape in the doorway. It was too dark to make out more than his silhouette. “Good,” Eames said, voice thick with sleep. “Come to bed, then.”
“No,” Robert said, “I just wanted to tell you. It’s not because of you, either. Or anything you said to me. It’s because I made the decision I don't want to go.”
“Good,” Eames repeated, “So, then, what now?”
“Now, nothing,” Robert said. “You can go, wherever you like. Go back to Mombasa. Go to the moon for all I care.”
“Not going to protect your reputation?” Eames asked. “I could go to anyone and tell them how Robert Fischer kidnapped me, held me hostage for a month. Fucked me silly. The tabloids will go wild over that last one.”
“I don't care,” Robert said, “I’m tired of everything. I’m tired of caring. I’m tired of you.”
“That’s a little harsh,” Eames said. What he wanted to say was that he was sorry, he had obviously crossed some kind of line when he had talked about Robert’s father. The man had obviously been a scumbag, but that didn't mean he'd had the right to tell Robert that. Robert already knew it, and he didn't seem too keen about anyone thinking that way about Maurice Fischer besides him.
He couldn’t apologize though. It wasn't that he couldn’t bring himself to do it, of course he could. Eames was prideful, but not when it came to his lovers. He could bring himself to do most anything when it came to sharing a bed with someone. What he couldn't do was apologize for telling someone the truth. No matter how hurtful and tactless the truth might have been.
“I don't care about that either,” Robert said. He sighed, leaning against the door frame. “I imagine you’ll want to be paid, job or no job. That’s fine.”
“Keep your bleeding money,” Eames snapped. He thought there must have been someone controlling his voice when the words registered, but no, he had said them. Robert certainly had a way of bringing out the queerest sides of him.
It was slightly adorable that Robert believed their time together was finished. Also, that he believed Cobb and whomever his employer was would give up so easily. When it turned out that Robert wasn’t on the plane, escorting his father’s body, Cobb would be pissed. Cobb angry was Cobb dangerous. His next course of action would be far less tactical and far more desperate.
“He’ll find a way to get at you,” Eames said, “Maybe not inception, maybe just off the little rich boy. That ought to do it. Maurice Fischer and his little brat, gone and good riddance. I imagine whoever hired Cobb won’t care one way or the other how you're gotten rid of.”
“If you're trying to scare me, you're not trying hard enough,” Robert said.
“I wouldn't want to scare you,” Eames said, “You have this bad habit of assuming I’m being an ass, even when I’m not. Also, you seem to think every word that comes out of my mouth is a lie. I’ll have you know I tell the truth on occasion.”
“You wouldn’t know the truth if it tied you up and spanked you.”
“Kinky thought, but I’m being serious,” Eames said. “If you’ll pull your head out of your arse long enough to listen to me, I think you might want to consider keeping me around.”
Robert remained silent. There was tension in that silence, but there was also attentiveness. He was listening.
“When they see you're not where they want you to be, they’ll panic. Cobb will want to rally his team, but by that point, most of them will abandon ship.” Eames thought for a moment before adding, “Except Arthur. He's a wet blanket, that one, but his loyalty to Cobb is bordering on fanatical.”
“Why pursue this?” Robert asked, “If they all abandon him, what’s the point? What’s he going to do?”
“Like I said. The progression might be outright murder. You're the ante in their deal.”
“What deal?”
Eames shrugged. “Something worth all of this bullshit. Money, that’s a powerful thing, but there are other things that’ll force a man to try anything.”
“What will my death accomplish?”
“I don’t know,” Eames said, and then, as though a light bulb had gone off over his head, he amended, “Fischer-Morrow.”
“My father's company---”
“Your father’s dead,” Eames pointed out, “That makes it your company, muffin.”
Eames could see the pet name made Robert bristle. If not for the weight of their conversation, he was sure Robert would've picked up something heavy and lobbed it at his head. As it were, he remained standing in the doorway, hands stroking over his biceps; to ease down goose flesh, was Eames’ best guess. After a few minutes of heavy, cloying silence, Robert whispered, “And how would you help me?”
“Simple. I’d fight them off.”
“You'd kill them,” Robert said. It was not quite a question. His voice was cool, detached. “Cobb and this, Arthur. You'd kill the both of them.”
“Like rabid dogs,” Eames said. He could see that this made Robert uncomfortable. It was a strange situation, considering how he had come to be in the company of Mr. Robert Fischer, but of course, the man was nothing more than a little boy in a man's clothes. His heart was too damn tender. “There’s no such thing as professional courtesy here, love,” Eames continued, “You hired me to do a job, yeah? To protect you. Well, that’s what I aim to do.”
“And you wouldn't regret it.”
“Cobb? Maybe. Arthur?” Eames laughed. “No, no. Oh, no. I’d enjoy it.”
“I don't mind telling you that that makes me extremely uncomfortable,” Robert said. His hands stroked faster over his biceps, warding off a sudden, violent chill.
“And I don't mind telling you that I don't give a frig what makes you uncomfortable, princess.”
Again, more bristling. Eames wasn't sure if he found Robert’s holier-than-thou attitude endearing or infuriating. It was a strange mixture of both. Honestly, Eames didn't see what was getting his knickers in such a tangle. Robert had been the one who had so deviously wanted to snare Cobb and his team in their own trap. He had been perfectly willing to leave them trapped in a Hell of their own design, for God only knew how long, until their minds were mush.
A little extreme force, though, and he was quaking at the knees. Never mind that he had invaded Eames’ home with goons carrying semi-automatic weapons. Robert Fischer was an aristocrat, goddammit, he had his boundaries.
“Do what you need to do,” Robert said, stiffly, “When it’s over, I want you gone. The arrangement stands, just the way it was before. You collect your money, and you head off into the sunset.”
Eames wanted to hear some kind of admission that Robert would actually miss him when he was gone. No, his voice was taciturn, and the shape of his body was as stiff as a board. He didn't know what they had built together in the few short months they’d known one another, but Eames had thought it was something worth holding on to, or at least trying to hold on to.
Apparently he had been wrong.
****
Cobb stared at the handgun. He was fatigued, hardly able to keep his eyes focused, but he looked at the weapon with growing unease. He had spent most of his adult life doing things that any normal human being would consider horrendous and deplorable, but could he resort to outright, cold-blooded murder?
He imagined he had the guts to kill for his own safety, or the safety of his children, but what would happen if Robert Fischer refused to be taken quietly? If he put up a fight?
And then there was Eames to consider. Cobb knew little of Eames’ history, no one knew what the man had done before he had begun dabbling in dream share... Cobb thought that Eames wouldn't hesitate to kill him. Eames wasn't a rough and tumble man, he had never struck Cobb as someone who reacted violently to most situations, but when it came down to it, yes, Cobb believed Eames would kill him.
There was something about Eames’ eyes he had never quite trusted. They were not malicious. They were not coldly cruel. Nevertheless, there was something that had always rubbed Cobb the wrong way. You go ahead and do what you do, Eames’ eyes had always seemed to say, We both know I’m better than you.
That was it. Eames’ eyes, his entire attitude, seemed to broadcast that he was the best, and if anyone had a problem with that, they could kiss his ass.
He could see himself moving through the darkness of Fischer's apartment, coming across the man as he slept. Cobb had the entire scenario mapped out. Fischer would try to scream, and Cobb’s hand would slap over his mouth. A chloroform rag would take care of his struggling.
Eames would be there, of course he would, and Cobb would try his best to talk him over to his side. He couldn't promise more money than Fischer -- with Saito out of the deal that remained beyond his ability -- but he could play on whatever scrap of morality Eames had. Their friendship -- Cobb loathed to think of it in such flowery terms -- might be enough to convince Eames that he had made the wrong decision.
“You're forgetting something,” Arthur said. Cobb started, looking over his shoulder. It was eerie how Arthur always seemed to know what was on his mind. “Eames is a bastard. I could handle that much, I suppose, I’ve known plenty of bastards. But Eames has no moral compass. Zero. Zilch. As soon as you step into that apartment, you're dead. If you think otherwise, you're just being stupid.”
“I don't,” Cobb said, looking back to the handgun. He wanted to make a case for himself, to justify what he was doing, but Arthur didn't need anything like that. He followed Cobb because he wanted to. Cobb certainly didn't twist his arm. The others had abandoned him -- even Ariadne, who Cobb had placed quite a bit of effort and trust in. Arthur, though, remained at his side.
If Cobb hadn't been so tired, he might’ve wondered about why.
“You have to kill him before he can kill you,” Arthur said. In theory, it made perfect sense. It was simple, clean, precise. It was just like Arthur to reduce something so morally and emotionally tangled into an exact science. There was something disturbing about Arthur's lack of outrage at what Cobb was planning. On the other hand, there was also something extraordinarily comforting.
“If this goes right,” Arthur said, “You’ll have more than Cobol hunting you. Saito won’t be happy to hear that you had the opportunity to permanently pluck the thorn out of his side, and just decided to settle for ransom.”
“I’m not going to kill an innocent man,” Cobb said. The words sounded hollow to his own ears, the words of a man desperately trying to convince himself. “I’m not.”
“Innocent,” Arthur scoffed. He was closer now, right behind Cobb. His hand rested on Cobb’s shoulder, tightened briefly. “No man is innocent. We know that, don't we? We’ve seen things that no one else has. We’ve been down in places where no man can hide his secrets. We're animals, Cobb.”
He leaned down, his lips brushing Cobb’s ear. Cobb shivered. It was not wholly unpleasant. “Do you know what animals do, Cobb?”
“Survive,” Cobb said.
“Right,” Arthur agreed, “They -- We -- do anything to survive.”
Even still, when Cobb lifted the gun, it trembled in his hand.
****
Robert watched his father's funeral on the news. He hadn't meant to, but there was no escaping it. Maurice was heralded as a man who had changed the entire energy industry, and through it, the world. Lionized as a man who would be remembered for generations, and whose legacy would continue long after his body was laid to rest.
Rain beat against the windows. Thunder boomed loudly, shaking the house down to its foundation. The mug of coffee he had poured himself was cold. Robert glanced at his watch, saw that it was nearly eleven, and frowned. He had been sitting there, looking through the television, for over an hour.
Any other day, the storm would have been soothing. On that day, it only made him feel dismally small. His father was dead. Robert was too confused to focus on any of the emotions that twisted up in his chest. Grief was chief among them, but right behind it was relief. He hated himself for feeling that way, but he knew it was out of his hands.
Eames snuck up behind him, wrapping his arms around Robert’s waist and resting his chin on Robert’s shoulder. “Day-dreaming?” He asked.
Robert said nothing, only hummed slightly.
“You’d be just as miserable if you were there,” Eames said. “Only there you'd have to stand around like a jackass and have people tell you how dreadfully sorry they are for your loss.”
Eames had a point, tactless though it was. He would be forced to stand there, more puppet than man, shaking hands and accepting hugs and listening to people mourn a man they had never really known. Robert had known him, as well as any person could know Maurice Fischer. Cold, distant, demoralizing. Whenever his eyes had moved to him, Robert had felt like crawling into himself and disappearing.
So no, he didn't want to hear how dreadfully sorry everyone was. What he wanted was to be left alone, something that Eames seemed just as incapable of doing.
“Tell me what you're thinking?”
“I’m thinking...I’d like another cup of coffee,” Robert said. He shivered when Eames kissed the sensitive skin just behind his ear, before he grabbed Robert’s mug and moved into the kitchen.
Fischer-Morrow. Once the funeral was over, the pundits were forced to discuss the company’s future. Would Robert Fischer (who, disgraceful wretch that he was, hadn’t even attended his own father’s funeral) continue in his father’s footsteps? Most thought yes, though they seemed adamant that Robert would only be a figurehead. Most of the work would be done by men with experience, men who had known and worked for Maurice Fischer for decades.
Robert watched the reporters and journalists discuss him, smiling bemusedly. It all seemed so surreal. They had only seen him on one or two occasions, typically a shadow in the corners at one of his father’s extravagant events. Yes, there had been reports about he and Maurice’s relationship; “Maurice and Robert Fischer: A Familial Cold War” had been his favorite, actually. In that piece, he had been described as a prodigal son, running around on daddy’s dime. If he had told the talking heads that he had preferred to be secluded from everything and everyone, what would they have said?
‘That’s not what our sources say,’ most likely. Robert’s smile widened. Really, the entire circus was amusing. Whatever happened with Fischer-Morrow, Robert was content with the fact that someone, somewhere, would believe he had fucked everything all to hell.
“There’s something I haven't seen in a while,” Eames said. He placed a steaming mug in front of Robert before sitting across from him.
“What?”
“Your smile,” Eames said.
“I’m sorry,” Robert murmured, “My father dying and a man wanting to kill me must've sapped up a lot of my good humor. I’ll try to smile more often, for your sake.”
Eames grinned. “That wit of yours is as sharp as ever.”
Robert sighed, taking a slow sip from the mug. “Thank you,” he said, quietly, “For the coffee, I mean.”
“Do you know what you're going to do?” Eames asked.
“No. Not that it’s any of your business, but no. No matter what I do, people will think I’ve ruined everything.”
“That’s the beauty part of it,” Eames laughed, “You've got nothing to lose.”
He tried not to smile, but he couldn’t help himself. Eames certainly had a way of making everything seem simple. “Let’s see if I’m alive tomorrow, and then I’ll think of what I’m going to do,” Robert said.
“You’ll be alive,” Eames said, “I’ll make sure of that.”
“That would mean so much more if I actually trusted you.”
“Ouch, darling. Right to the bone,” Eames said.
****
The weatherman had said the storm clouds over Sydney would be breaking at mid-day, and there would be plentiful sunshine. Cobb dreamed of finding the son of a bitch and beating him over the head with a rusty pipe as he checked the board once more for departure times.
Flight 104 TOKYO to SYDNEY - DELAYED.
Well, fuck.
Arthur took the empty seat next to Cobb, passing him a styrofoam cup. It was warm to the touch, instantly soothing. Cobb sighed, took a sip, and sighed again. It was perfect. Arthur always knew how he liked his coffee. Strange, Cobb couldn't remember ever telling him.
“That’s the beauty of the world,” Cobb said. “No matter where you are, a Starbucks is always within spitting distance.”
Arthur looked at Cobb impassively. Either he didn't get the witty social commentary, or he didn’t find it particularly amusing. Cobb wasn't surprised. Arthur had been blessed with many things, but a sense of humor hadn't been one of them.
Apparently, Arthur had been bred knowing how Cobb took his coffee, and how Cobb liked his shirts pressed. And, more disturbing, how Cobb needed the sound of a television to fall asleep. That particular fact had been learned the previous night, when they had been forced to share a hotel room. Arthur, without saying a word, had turned the television down to a murmur, turned off the lights, and rolled over.
Cobb had lain there for an hour wondering how the hell he had known.
“I spoke with the ticket agent,” Arthur said, “Apparently the weather down in Sydney is pretty bad, but it should clear up in the next hour or two.”
“Hour or two," Cobb muttered, “You know Eames is using this time to get Fischer the hell out of there. Say what you want about him, but he’s not stupid.”
“Far from it,” Arthur said. His face twisted briefly, with obvious distaste. “But he won't run. Fischer hired him to do a job, and Eames always finishes a job. It’s one of his only traits that's even remotely admirable.”
“I'd like to avoid hurting him if I can,” Cobb said. “I know that’s not what you want to hear, but that’s the way it’s going to be. We’ll get in there, see if we can get Fischer out without making waves. If Eames... Well, if he makes a move, then we don't have a choice.”
“Eames won’t give us a choice,” Arthur said. He leaned forward, not facing Cobb, with his elbows on his knees. “He’ll kill us. He won't let us set a foot in that house before we’re dead. I know that's not what you want to hear, but that's the way it's going to be.”
Using his own words against him. Touché, Cobb thought.
“You know what needs to be done,” Arthur said, leaning back and tucking his hands in his pockets.
Of course he did. But that didn’t mean he was looking forward to it.
****
Eames sat by the bedroom window, smoking, looking out over the rain-slicked pavement. Robert slept, thinly, behind him, curled up with his hand resting on the butt of a pistol. Eames thought Robert would only wind up hurting himself with the thing, but Robert had refused to hand it over. More likely, some small noise would awaken him in the night, and he’d wind up putting a bullet in Eames’ back.
That would certainly be a spectacular end to what had been a spectacular affair.
He thought, once Robert was settled and he was given time enough to sit and think clearly, that his mind would focus obsessively on Cobb and what he was planning. It seemed that he was a glutton for punishment, though, all he could think about was Robert. Eames had gone into the job with certain expectations: Protect Fischer, get his chance to re-try inception, and part ways with the man.
But he had surprised himself. The money hadn't been enough. Inception hadn't been enough. If it had been, Eames would have deserted Robert and switched over to Cobb’s side the minute the man had called him. He had gotten tangled up with Fischer. Tangled up in his pretty eyes, tangled up in the frailty of him.
Robert liked to believe that he was strong, that he had everything under control, and that he had everyone wrapped around his finger. The charade was so convincing, that even Robert had begun to believe it.
Deep down, Robert was nothing more than a little boy who yearned for something he couldn't understand. Affection from his father, most likely, but with Maurice dead there was little hope of that. Or maybe what he really wanted was someone who would see through all of his deceptions and sophisticated illusions. Someone who would see him.
Eames mashed out his cigarette. He grabbed his pack to have another, but when he heard a noise from the direction of the kitchen he dropped the pack on the floor and reached for the handgun tucked into the waistband of his trousers.
Jumping at shadows, Eames thought, but that didn't seem to convince his gut, which had tightened and drawn up. He moved out into the hallway, looking back at Robert one last time. If he’d have known how the night would end, he might have stayed a little longer, looked a little closer. Hindsight was twenty-twenty, though. Foresight was blind.
He pressed himself against the wall, peeking around the corner and out into the living room. The oversized plant that Robert insisted on keeping sent fronds into his face. Eames swore and batted them away.
There were footsteps coming from the kitchen.
No imagination there. Someone was in the house. Burglars seemed likely, but Eames knew that it was Cobb. It was insane, there was no way Cobb could win. Even if he managed to get his hands on Fischer, what would he do then? Demand a ransom? Maurice Fischer was dead, and Eames believed that most everyone at Fischer-Morrow considered Robert a liability. It would be better for business if he died.
Regardless of the foolishness of Cobb's quest, Eames knew that it was him. There was no logical explanation of how he could know such a thing, it was only a strong feeling in his gut.
A shadow moved across the wall. Eames saw someone step out from the alcove leading into the kitchen. He pulled out his gun. It was too dark to see who it was. Eames fired, heard a cry, more of surprise than pain, and fired again. He clipped the shadow's shoulder, knocking the figure back.
"Really don't want to kill you, mate," Eames called, "Better just turn back now and give this up."
A second figure moved out into the living room. Eames fired a third time, but the bullet arced high. He cursed under his breath, aimed again---
A bullet whizzed by his face. He felt the wind of it, and plaster slapped against his face. The bullet had peeled the wall on its trajectory. Goddamn good shot. Eames could feel his heart beating in his throat, and his knees were suddenly made of rubber. He sagged against the wall, out of sight, breathing heavily.
"You know why we're here," a man said, too cold and dispassionate to be Cobb. Ah, Arthur. Eames couldn't help but smile. "Give us Fischer and we'll get out of your hair, no one needs to die here, Eames."
"Almost took half my face off with that last shot," Eames called.
"These bullets aren’t designed to pack that kind of punch," Arthur said, "But, yes, they will kill you. So hand him over, Eames."
Eames heard Cobb grunt in pain. "Eames," he called, "Stop it. You're a man who works on, on odds, aren't you? What are the odds that, that you'll kill us both before we kill you?"
Pretty damn slim, actually. That didn't mean that Eames would just stand aside and let them both get their hands on Fischer. It was more than his infatuation with the man. He had taken on a job, and he meant to see it through to the end.
"Not looking good," Eames said, "But I can't stop. Not any more than you can."
He pressed flat against the wall, peeking around (expecting a bullet to come flying at his face at any moment) to see Arthur helping Cobb onto his feet. Perfect. Eames' finger tightened on the trigger, but relaxed when he heard footsteps approaching from behind him.
"You told me you loved me," Robert said, whispering, "Is that true?"
"This is so not the time to be talking about whether or not---"
"Is it true?" Robert demanded.
"Yes," Eames said, more of a hiss than a whisper, "It's bloody true, now get your ass back in the bedroom and---"
"If it's true, then stop," Robert said. His hand touched Eames' shoulder, lightly squeezed him. "I'm not one for romantics, Eames, and I'm definitely not one for heroics. I don't want you dying for me."
"You're asking me to give up," Eames said. His voice had lost all inflection. His body, which a second earlier had been hot and pumping with adrenaline, cooled. He couldn't understand what Robert was saying to him, why he was saying it. It seemed too anti-climactic to throw in the towel after all of their planning and preparing.
If it had been a movie, the entire audience would have booed, thrown their popcorn at the screen, and left the theater.
"There's a difference between giving up and giving in," Robert said. Eames knew he was smiling, in that smug, officious way he had of doing. He suddenly and very powerfully wanted to punch the man in the balls for dragging him along on this little adventure for so long only to tell him he couldn't finish what they had started.
"You go on then," Eames snapped, "Go and surrender to them, or whatever the fuck you're thinking about doing. You cowardly shit."
No, he couldn't let that be the end of it. He turned to Robert, saw in his eyes he meant to do something stupid, and he did the only thing he could possibly think to do. He put his gun away and he pulled Robert close to him.
"You couldn't stand me being a man of my word," Eames whispered to him.
"No," Robert chuckled. Eames thought his laugh sounded wet, but he didn't comment on it. It was melodramatic enough holding the man in his arms while Arthur and Cobb stood ready with guns around the corner.
Robert moved to stride into the living room, but Eames' caught his wrist. "Don't do this," Eames said, begged, "Don't."
"It's true," Robert said, "For me, too. You know that, don't you?"
No matter what Eames said to that, it would never be good enough. He could feel that, but he still managed to say, "Yeah, love. I know."
"I'm coming out," Robert called to Arthur and Cobb. "Put your weapons away."
"We can't, Mr. Fischer," Arthur said, "We can't trust Eames."
Well, that just meant they had been paying attention.
What happened next, happened in slow motion. Yet, when Eames looked back on it, he would remember it as a blur of movement. Fischer moved away from him, his hand falling from Eames', and Eames saw the gun tucked in the back of his trousers.
No longer than a minute. It couldn't have been. Robert rounded the corner, pulled out the gun, and fired a round into Cobb's chest. Cobb made a guttural noise, pain and shock, and crumpled.
A scream of something too sharp and desperate to be anything but anguish sounded. Funny, Eames had never thought Arthur would have that kind of emotion inside of him, but it all came boiling out. There were two shots fired. Eames watched Robert stop, looking down at his chest almost curiously. Blood gushed against his shirt.
Eames was frozen, but when he saw Robert stagger backwards and collapse onto his knees, his own knees unlocked and he rushed around the corner. He won't leave Cobb, Eames thought frantically, Can't do it.
But Arthur was dashing back through the alcove. Not thinking, not feeling, Eames snatched the gun out of his waistband and fired, bambambam, at the fleeing shadow. But Arthur was gone. He heard the door in the kitchen slam shut behind him, and then everything was over.
Eames glanced at Cobb's body with some regret. Couldn't have taken out Arthur, could you? Eames thought, Of course not.
If it had been a movie, Eames would have either managed to revive Fischer and get him to a hospital in time, or he would have had a chance to have a tearful goodbye with him, while scolding him for his foolishness. Likely while violins played, sorrowfully, in the background.
When Eames got to Robert he was already dead.
He did scold him, holding his body in his arms, getting soaked in his blood. Robert didn't hear him, though, and when that realization struck, Eames fell silent.
There was a mess to clean up. It wasn't the first time Eames had cleaned up a mess, and it likely wouldn't be the last. He tried to focus on what he needed to do, how he should get away, but he could only sit there for a while, holding Robert, feeling him grow cold and rigid in his arms.
Eventually, Eames did manage to do what needed to be done. It was dismal, exhaustive work, but it took the edge off of the sorrow that cut like glass into him.
He watched on the news, the next day, when Robert's body was discovered. He was mourned by the same people who had shed their crocodile tears for his father, and he was buried not a week after Maurice Fischer.
His job was done. Nothing was keeping him in Sydney. Considering the many ways he could be placed in Robert Fischer's home at the time of his death, remaining in Sydney was a bad idea. Still, Eames stayed, long enough to visit Robert's grave. The mourners were gone, the dirt was still fresh, and the sky overhead was an ominous gray.
It's true for me too, Robert had said, just before everything had fallen all to hell. Maybe he had only said that so that Eames would have something to comfort himself with when the nights were a little too dark and a little too cold.
"Should have believed me the first time," Eames said, kneeling down in front of Robert's tombstone. Still scolding him, still angry at him, still too in love with him to let go and move on. "You should have---"
You can't finish that sentence, and it scares the hell out of you. Yes, Robert had said that too, with his blue eyes flashing and his teeth locked in a grin.
Yes, it was true.
It scared the hell out of him.
Author darkseraphim21
Artist: ruins_of_sodom
Word Count: 8, 975 (Part 2), 16,965 (total)
Rating: R
Pairing: Eames/Robert
Warnings: Mild sexual content, nudity, adult language, violence, character death(s)
Read Part One Here!
Summary: "Recruited" by Robert to form a counter-offense against inception and the team behind it, Eames finds himself biting off more than he can chew with his feisty new employer. While Cobb and his team prepare for their inception on Robert, Eames and Fischer find themselves testing the boundaries of their complicated relationship. Used to getting a job done, quickly and efficiently, Eames is disturbed by just how much he wants to protect Robert.
Again, much love and thanks to ruins_of_sodom for his help and his beautiful artwork. The artwork is embedded, but check it out here. <3
Also, thanks to kick_back_80s for beta'ing!
Part Two
Mombasa, Kenya
The room was dark except for a small bulb that hung from the ceiling, swinging back and forth as a fan churned loudly in the corner. Any light afforded by the bulb was dim at best, and Cobb traced the his own shadow up the wall as he sat across from the figure in front of him. He could smell marijuana on the air, and it seeped through his pores and untethered his thoughts.
"You're looking for the Forger," the man across from him said. His voice was thickly accented and emphysematic, and he coughed into his fist before continuing. "He was here a few weeks back. Everyone liked him, no one trusted him. Smelled like trouble."
"That'd be him," Cobb agreed.
"Took off with some fancy white boy," the man said. He chuckled softly; this threw him into another coughing fit, longer and deeper than the first. "Australia, so I heard. Could be I know how you could get into contact with him. Could be I forgot, though."
Cobb reached into the breast of his coat and took out his wallet. "What's your memory worth?" Cobb asked.
"Ten thousand," the man wheezed.
"Dollars?" Cobb asked.
"No, sunflower seeds," the man said.
"You'll get your money," Cobb sighed. "Tell me what you know."
"Seems like a lot of people want this Forger," the man murmured, "You know why that is?"
"He's good at what he does," Cobb said, "Tell me what you know."
"Sydney, so I heard. Fancy boy he left with talked some about setting him up in a nice apartment. Could be one of my boys found out where."
"I need a number," Cobb said, "Not an address. Is there any particular reason you thought you'd need this information?"
"No one trusted him," the man repeated, leaning forward in his chair. It creaked loudly under his weight. "I don't ask you about your work, Mr. Cobb....You'd be wise not to ask about mine."
"A number," Cobb urged, suddenly very aware of the fact that he couldn't see a goddamn thing in that room, that he could only feel how heavy and damp the air was. The marijuana was starting to dull his senses, a dangerous thing considering who was hunting him and how little time he had to get away.
Someone had gotten to Eames before him. Cobb had no idea who, but it was obvious that Eames had gone willingly. Cobb had never known him to be strong-armed into a job before.
He could only hope that Eames would feel a certain obligation to assist him.
Cobb was fairly sure he was screwed.
****
The phone rang at a quarter to four in the morning.
Eames had been expecting the call for more than a week, sure that whomever was courting Robert would eventually find a way to track him down. He thought there could be a number of voices he might hear when he answered, a thousand different people who might fall on him in a time of need, mostly out of desperation. But still, he thought the most likely candidate would be Cobb. It was a gut feeling, and Eames had always trusted his gut.
"Hello?"
"I want to say first that I'm glad I finally found you. Also, you're a shit, Eames."
Eames laughed, and he felt Robert shift against him. Likely the man hadn't been expecting him to laugh when the call finally came. He wanted Eames to lure Cobb to them, but he also wanted Eames to be cold and mechanical when it came to his dealings with the man. Eames had never been built that way, though, and if Cobb noticed an iciness to his demeanor, he'd hang up and count his losses before Eames even knew what the hell he was up to.
"I would ask how you got this number," Eames said, "But of course I know how resourceful you are. So tell me what you wanted, Cobb. It's early on this side of the world."
"First you answer my question," Cobb redirected, "What are you even doing on that side of the world, Eames?"
It was a fair question, one that Eames had anticipated, and one that he had never quite come up with an answer to. The truth was impossible, and he knew that. Had the circumstances been different, the truth still would have been impossible. Eames much preferred to formulate his own brand of truth. He had heard that if a man repeated a lie enough it would become his truth. There was a certain kind of poetry to that belief.
"Didn't know I needed a reason to take a vacation," Eames said.
"Your life is a vacation," Cobb said, not unkindly. He sighed into the receiver, and Eames could imagine him rubbing his temple to try and ward off a migraine that was nothing more than a slight throbbing behind his eyes. It had been a long time since Cobb had taken a vacation, obviously, probably longer since he'd gotten laid. Something had to give, Eames thought, or Cobb was apt to turn up dead. Stress was a killer, particularly for people in their business.
It had a habit of dulling their razor-sharp skills. With Cobol hunting him, Cobb didn't have much room for maneuvering as it was. Eames wanted to tell him to relax, but the best he could do was wait for Cobb to say something. The silence stretched between them, over the sea and between the continents.
"You know I wouldn't call you unless I needed something," Cobb said, reluctantly. He had never been one to swallow his pride. "This isn't something I really want to talk about over the phone, though."
"You're free to come and see me," Eames said, feeling a small twinge of regret at the words. He didn't want to be malicious, least of all towards Cobb, but there was nothing he could do about it. Cobb wouldn't come because he knew. He knew already, and this phone call was nothing but a desperate attempt. Eames hated himself, just a little, for mocking the man's vulnerability.
"Tell me what you know about inception," Cobb said, voice clipped and icy. The pleasantries were apparently over.
"Inception," Eames said. Robert pulled away from him when he heard the word, sitting on the edge of the bed. "What would you want to know about inception, mate? The fact that it's bloody dangerous to even think about, or the fact that it's damn near impossible?"
"That word doesn't really exist in my vocabulary, Eames," Cobb said, "Maybe I shouldn't be asking you about inception. Maybe I should just be asking if you're willing to help me or not."
"Oh, well, I'm not sure about that," Eames evaded, "It's been a busy time for me, you understand--"
"I wasn't born yesterday," Cobb snapped, "What the hell are you doing out there, Eames? Who got to you? Either you're in trouble, or you're causing trouble."
"I really don't know what you're talking about. Back to the subject of inception...don't even try it. I'm telling you, it's dangerous business. It's dangerous even to think of it."
"Eames--"
"You know me," Eames said, "I'm a man who's familiar with odds. The odds are my life, yeah? So just trust me when I say the odds for pulling off inception are about the same as your odds of being struck by lightning twice."
"The odds don't matter," Cobb said. There was something off about his voice. Eames couldn't quite put his finger on it. Cobb sounded determined, which was nothing new, but there was a hollowness to his words and his voice. Mechanical, in a way, like he had taken his hands from the wheel a long while ago and left himself up to chance.
Chance was a dangerous thing, too.
"What matters is that I'm going to do this," Cobb continued, "With or without your help."
"What's the job, exactly?" Eames asked. "I'm not agreeing to it just yet, mind you, but inquiring minds want to know."
"You don't get anything from me until you agree to be on board," Cobb said. "You know better than that, Eames."
Fuck, he was as smart as ever.
"Let me rephrase that," Eames said, "Why would you accept this kind of job?" What he really wanted to ask was, Who bought you?, but there was no chance Cobb would answer that either.
"Let me ask you something," Cobb said, "Who did you run off with?"
"What--"
"You made a lot of friends over here," Cobb said, "Like most of your 'friends' they sold you out for the right price."
"Like most of my friends they're talking out of their ass," Eames said, "I didn't run off with anyone." Eames glanced at Robert. For some reason, he knew the man was smiling. Impossible to know from the back of his head, but he did know.
"I need an answer," Cobb said.
The conversation was completely fucked. Eames had long since lost control of it. With anyone else he could have redirected them, steered them in the right direction, sweet talked them into giving him the information he wanted. With Cobb, though, none of his usual tactics worked. The man was just too goddamn smart and familiar with his strategies.
"I guess that'd be a no," Eames said.
Cobb hung up without another word. Eames sat there with the phone against his ear for a few minutes, reflecting on how spectacularly shitty the experience had been. He had learned nothing, but his suspicions had been right. He knew that it was Cobb on the job, and that meant that Robert was in a bit of trouble.
Cobb, too, was damn good at what he did.
"You didn't learn anything," Robert said. Eames wasn't sure if the man meant it as a question or an accusation.
"No," Eames sighed. "It was a long shot, love."
Robert laughed, with little humor. "You'll be honest with me, won't you?"
"Sure."
He looked at Eames over his shoulder, pale eyes more naked than Eames had ever seen them. Robert was afraid. For the first time since they had met, his fear was palpable, coming off of him in waves. "Am I completely fucked?"
"Not completely," Eames said with a smile, "Just mostly."
****
Time was running out. It was not something Eames knew, but something he felt. Eames had always prided himself on his ability to sense things, but he had never relied solely on his gut before. Circumstances were different, however, and he knew that Cobb was preparing himself. A week, a month, surely no longer than that.
Eames noticed that Robert had been spending most of his time elsewhere lately. It struck him as strange that Robert would want to be alone now of all times. They were rapidly approaching the jumping off point -- for want of a better term -- and Eames wanted Robert where he could see him, preferably at all times.
When he asked the man where he disappeared to, Robert dismissed him. “Nowhere important,” Robert would lie, all the while refusing to meet Eames’ eyes. “Just business, you understand?”
He understood, but that didn't mean he approved. If it was ‘business’ that Robert was attending to, why didn't he bring Eames along? It obviously wasn't that he didn't trust Eames, more that he didn't want to reveal what he was doing until he was absolutely sure it was necessary. Which meant that Eames couldn't trust him. Either they were going to be straight with one another (the terminology managed to bring a wry smile to Eames’ face despite the importance of the situation) or the entire thing was off.
There were many ways to make Robert confess what he was doing on his little trips. At first, Eames tried being direct, demanding Robert tell him what he was up to. When that earned him nothing more than a little smile from Robert, Eames resorted to dirtier tactics. There was a bit of skin, surely no larger than an inch, just behind Robert’s ear, that, when kissed, caused the man to vibrate with the most delicious shudders.
Eames kissed and sucked that inch for nearly ten minutes until Robert was nothing more than melted butter in his arms. And then he whispered to him, “I'd like to know where you go off to, love.”
“Mmm, chemist,” Robert murmured, his voice sounded almost inebriated. His arms wound around Eames’ neck.
“Ahh. That wasn't so hard, was it? You could have told me that. I was worried you were planning on sticking a knife in my vitals.”
“I've got something better for your vitals,” Robert said, speech still inaudibly slurred. His hand fumbled with his trousers, fingers slipping over the zipper. Eames chuckled and swatted his hands away, undoing Robert’s trousers before he managed to hurt himself.
“That’s awfully vulgar of you,” Eames said, “I’m kind of shocked, Mr. Fischer.”
“On your back,” Robert said, ignoring Eames’ mocking. He was in no mood, apparently.
Or rather, he was in the wrong kind of mood.
****
The chemist was necessary.
It was not only that the chemist was necessary, but that tracking down Cobb’s chemist was. The person Cobb was using to put them under, to actually let them enter Fischer’s subconscious, would be vital to their plans.
Dream sharing was a tricky business, not least of all because the actual dose of the stuff that put them under would have to be powerful enough to last, but not so powerful that they might overdose or be lost in the dream. A strong kick was good enough... usually.
What Eames wanted was a chemist with the ability to put some under deep, and provide others with a lighter dose. He had known, the minute he had found out it was Cobb attempting inception, that his man would be Yusuf.
Eames had had some dealings with the man, had found him to be a fairly easy-going gent. Robert needn’t have resorted to such stealthy tactics, actually. Had he asked Eames, the entire thing would have been cleared up in a matter of minutes. Still, he had managed to locate Yusuf without Eames' assistance, and with the right amount of pressure (an ungodly sum of money that Robert was too embarrassed to even tell Eames) Yusuf had agreed.
“He told me there is a way for the dosage to vary, even in that kind of environment. It’ll take some doing, but he assured me he can manage it. Didn't sound too worried about betraying his employer, either. No loyalty among thieves, I suppose.”
“Not thieves,” Eames corrected, for what felt like the millionth time. “I told you. They’re not stealing anything, they're leaving something behind. Again, darling, it’s closer to breaking and entering than actual thievery.”
“He told me something else,” Robert said, ignoring Eames’ condescension. Likely they had spent so much time together that he no longer even noticed. “He told me that we’d better be careful; Cobb’s formed himself an extremely skilled team. O Great and Powerful Eames or not, he’s managed to do some excellent recruiting.”
“Bollocks,” Eames muttered, throwing himself face down on the bed. Theatrics, of course, but the result was what he wanted. Robert laid down beside him, stroking his fingers from the small of Eames’ back to the nape of his neck. Perfect.
“Not surprised,” Eames said, voice muffled against the bed. “He always had the luck of the Devil. Or else he’s just bloody smart. I don’t think so though. In this business, luck is always better.”
“Either way,” Robert said, “We’ll be ready. I trust you more than anyone he might have found.”
“Aww, listen to you.”
“I know what makes a man like you jump through hoops,” Robert whispered, breath tickling Eames’ ear.
“Mmm, yeah,” Eames agreed, laying his cheek against the bed. “That cute little ass of yours.”
“Oh, please,” Robert chuckled. “I don't have the narcissism to think my body has anything to do with it. Money, though. Or a promise of a second chance. I can play on your pride a lot easier than I can your horniness.”
“Aww, you're an ass,” Eames muttered. “Brilliant.”
“Shrewd,” Robert corrected. “That’s what a businessman has to be, right?”
“Also practical,” Eames said. “There’s always practicality. A businessman is nothing if he doesn't think about all of his options.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you don't have to get on a plane.”
“My father's body is going to Los Angeles. You're suggesting I don't need to be with it...him...when it, when he--”
“You're getting frustrated,” Eames said. The corner of his lips turned up in a crooked smile. He smoothed Robert’s hair back from his forehead like he was some kind of disconsolate child. He could feel from the way Robert fidgeted against him that he didn't appreciate it much. “Your father was an ass. A grand ass. The grandest ass of all the grand asses there have ever been.”
“You didn't know my father,” Robert whispered.
“You told me all about him, without telling me,” Eames said. “You’re an open book, darling.”
“I still don't see your point--”
“The point I am so elegantly trying to make is that you don’t have to go. There are people who could do that for you. What's the point of it? You get there and there’ll be all of these people around, trying to coddle you. Or worse, pretending you don't exist. Even in death, Maurice Fischer knows how to make an entrance and steal the show.”
“I wish you'd just stop,” Robert said, pulling away from Eames. “I wish you'd just shut up about things you don't understand.”
“I wish you'd stop playing the martyr and listen to me,” Eames said, grabbing Robert’s shoulders, forcing the man to stay put. Robert tried to fight him, weakly, but ended up just sitting there with his head down. “I’m not trying to hurt you,” Eames murmured, softening his grip on Robert. “What I’m trying to do is tell you that your life is your life.”
Robert refused to look at him. He had spent his entire life as the spoiled, snarky, slightly bratty child of a very wealthy, very powerful man. He had played that part so long, maybe he didn't know he could be anything else. Eames felt a little sorry for him. He also felt like shaking some sense into his pretty head.
“Maybe that’s what it's all about,” Eames said, “Not living your life for him anymore. But if you want to get on that plane, if you want to surrender yourself to inception just to prove a point, I’ll be with you.” He leaned in close to Robert, forcing the man's chin up. “Money is a great incentive. So is the promise of a second chance. But I could say being in love with you is a better incentive. Sort of. It’s fifty-fifty at least.”
“You’re a shit,” Robert said.
“That language is just uncalled for. Look at me, pouring my heart out to you, and that's what you say.” Eames clicked his tongue and frowned seriously. “You're a bully, that’s what you are.”
“You don't love me,” Robert said. Eames looked for some kind of sign that he was, in fact, being stubborn and not just an unfeeling ass. But no, Robert honestly didn't believe him. Well, wasn't that perfect. The one time he decided to tell the truth.
“Don't get on that plane,” Eames said. If Robert couldn't believe him, that was beside the point. The last thing Eames wanted to see was Robert heading into something that was completely over his head. “Do whatever you like otherwise. Toss me out of here, get your underwear in a bunch, throw a hissy fit. But don’t get on that plane. Your father's dead. He can’t control your life anymore.”
Robert’s fist connected with Eames’ belly. That was funny. Eames had thought Robert would have slapped him. He seemed the type. Anything to be overly dramatic. But no, he punched like a championship boxer. Or at least that was what it felt like.
“You don't love me,” Robert repeated. “Any person who loved me would never say that to me. God, I’m such an idiot. I thought you'd actually help me. You.”
“Robert--” Eames tried to say more, but Robert really did have a mean jab, and Eames was having a little trouble catching his breath. Besides, Robert was leaving, not even bothering to throw on a robe or snag his trousers from the foot of the bed. He walked naked to the door, long, gangly limbs looking absolutely perfect.
Eames hated him. He hated him so much he fucking loved him, and if the little prince couldn't believe that, he was an idiot.
“You could never love someone, because you could never trust someone,” Robert told him. It suddenly felt a few degrees colder in the room. “You’re the most heartless sonofabitch I've ever met,” Robert said. He left and slammed the door behind him.
He took all the air in the room with him.
****“I’m not going,” Robert said.
Eames could focus just enough to see his shape in the doorway. It was too dark to make out more than his silhouette. “Good,” Eames said, voice thick with sleep. “Come to bed, then.”
“No,” Robert said, “I just wanted to tell you. It’s not because of you, either. Or anything you said to me. It’s because I made the decision I don't want to go.”
“Good,” Eames repeated, “So, then, what now?”
“Now, nothing,” Robert said. “You can go, wherever you like. Go back to Mombasa. Go to the moon for all I care.”
“Not going to protect your reputation?” Eames asked. “I could go to anyone and tell them how Robert Fischer kidnapped me, held me hostage for a month. Fucked me silly. The tabloids will go wild over that last one.”
“I don't care,” Robert said, “I’m tired of everything. I’m tired of caring. I’m tired of you.”
“That’s a little harsh,” Eames said. What he wanted to say was that he was sorry, he had obviously crossed some kind of line when he had talked about Robert’s father. The man had obviously been a scumbag, but that didn't mean he'd had the right to tell Robert that. Robert already knew it, and he didn't seem too keen about anyone thinking that way about Maurice Fischer besides him.
He couldn’t apologize though. It wasn't that he couldn’t bring himself to do it, of course he could. Eames was prideful, but not when it came to his lovers. He could bring himself to do most anything when it came to sharing a bed with someone. What he couldn't do was apologize for telling someone the truth. No matter how hurtful and tactless the truth might have been.
“I don't care about that either,” Robert said. He sighed, leaning against the door frame. “I imagine you’ll want to be paid, job or no job. That’s fine.”
“Keep your bleeding money,” Eames snapped. He thought there must have been someone controlling his voice when the words registered, but no, he had said them. Robert certainly had a way of bringing out the queerest sides of him.
It was slightly adorable that Robert believed their time together was finished. Also, that he believed Cobb and whomever his employer was would give up so easily. When it turned out that Robert wasn’t on the plane, escorting his father’s body, Cobb would be pissed. Cobb angry was Cobb dangerous. His next course of action would be far less tactical and far more desperate.
“He’ll find a way to get at you,” Eames said, “Maybe not inception, maybe just off the little rich boy. That ought to do it. Maurice Fischer and his little brat, gone and good riddance. I imagine whoever hired Cobb won’t care one way or the other how you're gotten rid of.”
“If you're trying to scare me, you're not trying hard enough,” Robert said.
“I wouldn't want to scare you,” Eames said, “You have this bad habit of assuming I’m being an ass, even when I’m not. Also, you seem to think every word that comes out of my mouth is a lie. I’ll have you know I tell the truth on occasion.”
“You wouldn’t know the truth if it tied you up and spanked you.”
“Kinky thought, but I’m being serious,” Eames said. “If you’ll pull your head out of your arse long enough to listen to me, I think you might want to consider keeping me around.”
Robert remained silent. There was tension in that silence, but there was also attentiveness. He was listening.
“When they see you're not where they want you to be, they’ll panic. Cobb will want to rally his team, but by that point, most of them will abandon ship.” Eames thought for a moment before adding, “Except Arthur. He's a wet blanket, that one, but his loyalty to Cobb is bordering on fanatical.”
“Why pursue this?” Robert asked, “If they all abandon him, what’s the point? What’s he going to do?”
“Like I said. The progression might be outright murder. You're the ante in their deal.”
“What deal?”
Eames shrugged. “Something worth all of this bullshit. Money, that’s a powerful thing, but there are other things that’ll force a man to try anything.”
“What will my death accomplish?”
“I don’t know,” Eames said, and then, as though a light bulb had gone off over his head, he amended, “Fischer-Morrow.”
“My father's company---”
“Your father’s dead,” Eames pointed out, “That makes it your company, muffin.”
Eames could see the pet name made Robert bristle. If not for the weight of their conversation, he was sure Robert would've picked up something heavy and lobbed it at his head. As it were, he remained standing in the doorway, hands stroking over his biceps; to ease down goose flesh, was Eames’ best guess. After a few minutes of heavy, cloying silence, Robert whispered, “And how would you help me?”
“Simple. I’d fight them off.”
“You'd kill them,” Robert said. It was not quite a question. His voice was cool, detached. “Cobb and this, Arthur. You'd kill the both of them.”
“Like rabid dogs,” Eames said. He could see that this made Robert uncomfortable. It was a strange situation, considering how he had come to be in the company of Mr. Robert Fischer, but of course, the man was nothing more than a little boy in a man's clothes. His heart was too damn tender. “There’s no such thing as professional courtesy here, love,” Eames continued, “You hired me to do a job, yeah? To protect you. Well, that’s what I aim to do.”
“And you wouldn't regret it.”
“Cobb? Maybe. Arthur?” Eames laughed. “No, no. Oh, no. I’d enjoy it.”
“I don't mind telling you that that makes me extremely uncomfortable,” Robert said. His hands stroked faster over his biceps, warding off a sudden, violent chill.
“And I don't mind telling you that I don't give a frig what makes you uncomfortable, princess.”
Again, more bristling. Eames wasn't sure if he found Robert’s holier-than-thou attitude endearing or infuriating. It was a strange mixture of both. Honestly, Eames didn't see what was getting his knickers in such a tangle. Robert had been the one who had so deviously wanted to snare Cobb and his team in their own trap. He had been perfectly willing to leave them trapped in a Hell of their own design, for God only knew how long, until their minds were mush.
A little extreme force, though, and he was quaking at the knees. Never mind that he had invaded Eames’ home with goons carrying semi-automatic weapons. Robert Fischer was an aristocrat, goddammit, he had his boundaries.
“Do what you need to do,” Robert said, stiffly, “When it’s over, I want you gone. The arrangement stands, just the way it was before. You collect your money, and you head off into the sunset.”
Eames wanted to hear some kind of admission that Robert would actually miss him when he was gone. No, his voice was taciturn, and the shape of his body was as stiff as a board. He didn't know what they had built together in the few short months they’d known one another, but Eames had thought it was something worth holding on to, or at least trying to hold on to.
Apparently he had been wrong.
****
Cobb stared at the handgun. He was fatigued, hardly able to keep his eyes focused, but he looked at the weapon with growing unease. He had spent most of his adult life doing things that any normal human being would consider horrendous and deplorable, but could he resort to outright, cold-blooded murder?
He imagined he had the guts to kill for his own safety, or the safety of his children, but what would happen if Robert Fischer refused to be taken quietly? If he put up a fight?
And then there was Eames to consider. Cobb knew little of Eames’ history, no one knew what the man had done before he had begun dabbling in dream share... Cobb thought that Eames wouldn't hesitate to kill him. Eames wasn't a rough and tumble man, he had never struck Cobb as someone who reacted violently to most situations, but when it came down to it, yes, Cobb believed Eames would kill him.
There was something about Eames’ eyes he had never quite trusted. They were not malicious. They were not coldly cruel. Nevertheless, there was something that had always rubbed Cobb the wrong way. You go ahead and do what you do, Eames’ eyes had always seemed to say, We both know I’m better than you.
That was it. Eames’ eyes, his entire attitude, seemed to broadcast that he was the best, and if anyone had a problem with that, they could kiss his ass.
He could see himself moving through the darkness of Fischer's apartment, coming across the man as he slept. Cobb had the entire scenario mapped out. Fischer would try to scream, and Cobb’s hand would slap over his mouth. A chloroform rag would take care of his struggling.
Eames would be there, of course he would, and Cobb would try his best to talk him over to his side. He couldn't promise more money than Fischer -- with Saito out of the deal that remained beyond his ability -- but he could play on whatever scrap of morality Eames had. Their friendship -- Cobb loathed to think of it in such flowery terms -- might be enough to convince Eames that he had made the wrong decision.
“You're forgetting something,” Arthur said. Cobb started, looking over his shoulder. It was eerie how Arthur always seemed to know what was on his mind. “Eames is a bastard. I could handle that much, I suppose, I’ve known plenty of bastards. But Eames has no moral compass. Zero. Zilch. As soon as you step into that apartment, you're dead. If you think otherwise, you're just being stupid.”
“I don't,” Cobb said, looking back to the handgun. He wanted to make a case for himself, to justify what he was doing, but Arthur didn't need anything like that. He followed Cobb because he wanted to. Cobb certainly didn't twist his arm. The others had abandoned him -- even Ariadne, who Cobb had placed quite a bit of effort and trust in. Arthur, though, remained at his side.
If Cobb hadn't been so tired, he might’ve wondered about why.
“You have to kill him before he can kill you,” Arthur said. In theory, it made perfect sense. It was simple, clean, precise. It was just like Arthur to reduce something so morally and emotionally tangled into an exact science. There was something disturbing about Arthur's lack of outrage at what Cobb was planning. On the other hand, there was also something extraordinarily comforting.
“If this goes right,” Arthur said, “You’ll have more than Cobol hunting you. Saito won’t be happy to hear that you had the opportunity to permanently pluck the thorn out of his side, and just decided to settle for ransom.”
“I’m not going to kill an innocent man,” Cobb said. The words sounded hollow to his own ears, the words of a man desperately trying to convince himself. “I’m not.”
“Innocent,” Arthur scoffed. He was closer now, right behind Cobb. His hand rested on Cobb’s shoulder, tightened briefly. “No man is innocent. We know that, don't we? We’ve seen things that no one else has. We’ve been down in places where no man can hide his secrets. We're animals, Cobb.”
He leaned down, his lips brushing Cobb’s ear. Cobb shivered. It was not wholly unpleasant. “Do you know what animals do, Cobb?”
“Survive,” Cobb said.
“Right,” Arthur agreed, “They -- We -- do anything to survive.”
Even still, when Cobb lifted the gun, it trembled in his hand.
****
Robert watched his father's funeral on the news. He hadn't meant to, but there was no escaping it. Maurice was heralded as a man who had changed the entire energy industry, and through it, the world. Lionized as a man who would be remembered for generations, and whose legacy would continue long after his body was laid to rest.
Rain beat against the windows. Thunder boomed loudly, shaking the house down to its foundation. The mug of coffee he had poured himself was cold. Robert glanced at his watch, saw that it was nearly eleven, and frowned. He had been sitting there, looking through the television, for over an hour.
Any other day, the storm would have been soothing. On that day, it only made him feel dismally small. His father was dead. Robert was too confused to focus on any of the emotions that twisted up in his chest. Grief was chief among them, but right behind it was relief. He hated himself for feeling that way, but he knew it was out of his hands.
Eames snuck up behind him, wrapping his arms around Robert’s waist and resting his chin on Robert’s shoulder. “Day-dreaming?” He asked.
Robert said nothing, only hummed slightly.
“You’d be just as miserable if you were there,” Eames said. “Only there you'd have to stand around like a jackass and have people tell you how dreadfully sorry they are for your loss.”
Eames had a point, tactless though it was. He would be forced to stand there, more puppet than man, shaking hands and accepting hugs and listening to people mourn a man they had never really known. Robert had known him, as well as any person could know Maurice Fischer. Cold, distant, demoralizing. Whenever his eyes had moved to him, Robert had felt like crawling into himself and disappearing.
So no, he didn't want to hear how dreadfully sorry everyone was. What he wanted was to be left alone, something that Eames seemed just as incapable of doing.
“Tell me what you're thinking?”
“I’m thinking...I’d like another cup of coffee,” Robert said. He shivered when Eames kissed the sensitive skin just behind his ear, before he grabbed Robert’s mug and moved into the kitchen.
Fischer-Morrow. Once the funeral was over, the pundits were forced to discuss the company’s future. Would Robert Fischer (who, disgraceful wretch that he was, hadn’t even attended his own father’s funeral) continue in his father’s footsteps? Most thought yes, though they seemed adamant that Robert would only be a figurehead. Most of the work would be done by men with experience, men who had known and worked for Maurice Fischer for decades.
Robert watched the reporters and journalists discuss him, smiling bemusedly. It all seemed so surreal. They had only seen him on one or two occasions, typically a shadow in the corners at one of his father’s extravagant events. Yes, there had been reports about he and Maurice’s relationship; “Maurice and Robert Fischer: A Familial Cold War” had been his favorite, actually. In that piece, he had been described as a prodigal son, running around on daddy’s dime. If he had told the talking heads that he had preferred to be secluded from everything and everyone, what would they have said?
‘That’s not what our sources say,’ most likely. Robert’s smile widened. Really, the entire circus was amusing. Whatever happened with Fischer-Morrow, Robert was content with the fact that someone, somewhere, would believe he had fucked everything all to hell.
“There’s something I haven't seen in a while,” Eames said. He placed a steaming mug in front of Robert before sitting across from him.
“What?”
“Your smile,” Eames said.
“I’m sorry,” Robert murmured, “My father dying and a man wanting to kill me must've sapped up a lot of my good humor. I’ll try to smile more often, for your sake.”
Eames grinned. “That wit of yours is as sharp as ever.”
Robert sighed, taking a slow sip from the mug. “Thank you,” he said, quietly, “For the coffee, I mean.”
“Do you know what you're going to do?” Eames asked.
“No. Not that it’s any of your business, but no. No matter what I do, people will think I’ve ruined everything.”
“That’s the beauty part of it,” Eames laughed, “You've got nothing to lose.”
He tried not to smile, but he couldn’t help himself. Eames certainly had a way of making everything seem simple. “Let’s see if I’m alive tomorrow, and then I’ll think of what I’m going to do,” Robert said.
“You’ll be alive,” Eames said, “I’ll make sure of that.”
“That would mean so much more if I actually trusted you.”
“Ouch, darling. Right to the bone,” Eames said.
****
The weatherman had said the storm clouds over Sydney would be breaking at mid-day, and there would be plentiful sunshine. Cobb dreamed of finding the son of a bitch and beating him over the head with a rusty pipe as he checked the board once more for departure times.
Flight 104 TOKYO to SYDNEY - DELAYED.
Well, fuck.
Arthur took the empty seat next to Cobb, passing him a styrofoam cup. It was warm to the touch, instantly soothing. Cobb sighed, took a sip, and sighed again. It was perfect. Arthur always knew how he liked his coffee. Strange, Cobb couldn't remember ever telling him.
“That’s the beauty of the world,” Cobb said. “No matter where you are, a Starbucks is always within spitting distance.”
Arthur looked at Cobb impassively. Either he didn't get the witty social commentary, or he didn’t find it particularly amusing. Cobb wasn't surprised. Arthur had been blessed with many things, but a sense of humor hadn't been one of them.
Apparently, Arthur had been bred knowing how Cobb took his coffee, and how Cobb liked his shirts pressed. And, more disturbing, how Cobb needed the sound of a television to fall asleep. That particular fact had been learned the previous night, when they had been forced to share a hotel room. Arthur, without saying a word, had turned the television down to a murmur, turned off the lights, and rolled over.
Cobb had lain there for an hour wondering how the hell he had known.
“I spoke with the ticket agent,” Arthur said, “Apparently the weather down in Sydney is pretty bad, but it should clear up in the next hour or two.”
“Hour or two," Cobb muttered, “You know Eames is using this time to get Fischer the hell out of there. Say what you want about him, but he’s not stupid.”
“Far from it,” Arthur said. His face twisted briefly, with obvious distaste. “But he won't run. Fischer hired him to do a job, and Eames always finishes a job. It’s one of his only traits that's even remotely admirable.”
“I'd like to avoid hurting him if I can,” Cobb said. “I know that’s not what you want to hear, but that’s the way it’s going to be. We’ll get in there, see if we can get Fischer out without making waves. If Eames... Well, if he makes a move, then we don't have a choice.”
“Eames won’t give us a choice,” Arthur said. He leaned forward, not facing Cobb, with his elbows on his knees. “He’ll kill us. He won't let us set a foot in that house before we’re dead. I know that's not what you want to hear, but that's the way it's going to be.”
Using his own words against him. Touché, Cobb thought.
“You know what needs to be done,” Arthur said, leaning back and tucking his hands in his pockets.
Of course he did. But that didn’t mean he was looking forward to it.
****
Eames sat by the bedroom window, smoking, looking out over the rain-slicked pavement. Robert slept, thinly, behind him, curled up with his hand resting on the butt of a pistol. Eames thought Robert would only wind up hurting himself with the thing, but Robert had refused to hand it over. More likely, some small noise would awaken him in the night, and he’d wind up putting a bullet in Eames’ back.
That would certainly be a spectacular end to what had been a spectacular affair.
He thought, once Robert was settled and he was given time enough to sit and think clearly, that his mind would focus obsessively on Cobb and what he was planning. It seemed that he was a glutton for punishment, though, all he could think about was Robert. Eames had gone into the job with certain expectations: Protect Fischer, get his chance to re-try inception, and part ways with the man.
But he had surprised himself. The money hadn't been enough. Inception hadn't been enough. If it had been, Eames would have deserted Robert and switched over to Cobb’s side the minute the man had called him. He had gotten tangled up with Fischer. Tangled up in his pretty eyes, tangled up in the frailty of him.
Robert liked to believe that he was strong, that he had everything under control, and that he had everyone wrapped around his finger. The charade was so convincing, that even Robert had begun to believe it.
Deep down, Robert was nothing more than a little boy who yearned for something he couldn't understand. Affection from his father, most likely, but with Maurice dead there was little hope of that. Or maybe what he really wanted was someone who would see through all of his deceptions and sophisticated illusions. Someone who would see him.
Eames mashed out his cigarette. He grabbed his pack to have another, but when he heard a noise from the direction of the kitchen he dropped the pack on the floor and reached for the handgun tucked into the waistband of his trousers.
Jumping at shadows, Eames thought, but that didn't seem to convince his gut, which had tightened and drawn up. He moved out into the hallway, looking back at Robert one last time. If he’d have known how the night would end, he might have stayed a little longer, looked a little closer. Hindsight was twenty-twenty, though. Foresight was blind.
He pressed himself against the wall, peeking around the corner and out into the living room. The oversized plant that Robert insisted on keeping sent fronds into his face. Eames swore and batted them away.
There were footsteps coming from the kitchen.
No imagination there. Someone was in the house. Burglars seemed likely, but Eames knew that it was Cobb. It was insane, there was no way Cobb could win. Even if he managed to get his hands on Fischer, what would he do then? Demand a ransom? Maurice Fischer was dead, and Eames believed that most everyone at Fischer-Morrow considered Robert a liability. It would be better for business if he died.
Regardless of the foolishness of Cobb's quest, Eames knew that it was him. There was no logical explanation of how he could know such a thing, it was only a strong feeling in his gut.
A shadow moved across the wall. Eames saw someone step out from the alcove leading into the kitchen. He pulled out his gun. It was too dark to see who it was. Eames fired, heard a cry, more of surprise than pain, and fired again. He clipped the shadow's shoulder, knocking the figure back.
"Really don't want to kill you, mate," Eames called, "Better just turn back now and give this up."
A second figure moved out into the living room. Eames fired a third time, but the bullet arced high. He cursed under his breath, aimed again---
A bullet whizzed by his face. He felt the wind of it, and plaster slapped against his face. The bullet had peeled the wall on its trajectory. Goddamn good shot. Eames could feel his heart beating in his throat, and his knees were suddenly made of rubber. He sagged against the wall, out of sight, breathing heavily.
"You know why we're here," a man said, too cold and dispassionate to be Cobb. Ah, Arthur. Eames couldn't help but smile. "Give us Fischer and we'll get out of your hair, no one needs to die here, Eames."
"Almost took half my face off with that last shot," Eames called.
"These bullets aren’t designed to pack that kind of punch," Arthur said, "But, yes, they will kill you. So hand him over, Eames."
Eames heard Cobb grunt in pain. "Eames," he called, "Stop it. You're a man who works on, on odds, aren't you? What are the odds that, that you'll kill us both before we kill you?"
Pretty damn slim, actually. That didn't mean that Eames would just stand aside and let them both get their hands on Fischer. It was more than his infatuation with the man. He had taken on a job, and he meant to see it through to the end.
"Not looking good," Eames said, "But I can't stop. Not any more than you can."
He pressed flat against the wall, peeking around (expecting a bullet to come flying at his face at any moment) to see Arthur helping Cobb onto his feet. Perfect. Eames' finger tightened on the trigger, but relaxed when he heard footsteps approaching from behind him.
"You told me you loved me," Robert said, whispering, "Is that true?"
"This is so not the time to be talking about whether or not---"
"Is it true?" Robert demanded.
"Yes," Eames said, more of a hiss than a whisper, "It's bloody true, now get your ass back in the bedroom and---"
"If it's true, then stop," Robert said. His hand touched Eames' shoulder, lightly squeezed him. "I'm not one for romantics, Eames, and I'm definitely not one for heroics. I don't want you dying for me."
"You're asking me to give up," Eames said. His voice had lost all inflection. His body, which a second earlier had been hot and pumping with adrenaline, cooled. He couldn't understand what Robert was saying to him, why he was saying it. It seemed too anti-climactic to throw in the towel after all of their planning and preparing.
If it had been a movie, the entire audience would have booed, thrown their popcorn at the screen, and left the theater.
"There's a difference between giving up and giving in," Robert said. Eames knew he was smiling, in that smug, officious way he had of doing. He suddenly and very powerfully wanted to punch the man in the balls for dragging him along on this little adventure for so long only to tell him he couldn't finish what they had started.
"You go on then," Eames snapped, "Go and surrender to them, or whatever the fuck you're thinking about doing. You cowardly shit."
No, he couldn't let that be the end of it. He turned to Robert, saw in his eyes he meant to do something stupid, and he did the only thing he could possibly think to do. He put his gun away and he pulled Robert close to him.
"You couldn't stand me being a man of my word," Eames whispered to him.
"No," Robert chuckled. Eames thought his laugh sounded wet, but he didn't comment on it. It was melodramatic enough holding the man in his arms while Arthur and Cobb stood ready with guns around the corner.
Robert moved to stride into the living room, but Eames' caught his wrist. "Don't do this," Eames said, begged, "Don't."
"It's true," Robert said, "For me, too. You know that, don't you?"
No matter what Eames said to that, it would never be good enough. He could feel that, but he still managed to say, "Yeah, love. I know."
"I'm coming out," Robert called to Arthur and Cobb. "Put your weapons away."
"We can't, Mr. Fischer," Arthur said, "We can't trust Eames."
Well, that just meant they had been paying attention.
What happened next, happened in slow motion. Yet, when Eames looked back on it, he would remember it as a blur of movement. Fischer moved away from him, his hand falling from Eames', and Eames saw the gun tucked in the back of his trousers.
No longer than a minute. It couldn't have been. Robert rounded the corner, pulled out the gun, and fired a round into Cobb's chest. Cobb made a guttural noise, pain and shock, and crumpled.
A scream of something too sharp and desperate to be anything but anguish sounded. Funny, Eames had never thought Arthur would have that kind of emotion inside of him, but it all came boiling out. There were two shots fired. Eames watched Robert stop, looking down at his chest almost curiously. Blood gushed against his shirt.
Eames was frozen, but when he saw Robert stagger backwards and collapse onto his knees, his own knees unlocked and he rushed around the corner. He won't leave Cobb, Eames thought frantically, Can't do it.
But Arthur was dashing back through the alcove. Not thinking, not feeling, Eames snatched the gun out of his waistband and fired, bambambam, at the fleeing shadow. But Arthur was gone. He heard the door in the kitchen slam shut behind him, and then everything was over.
Eames glanced at Cobb's body with some regret. Couldn't have taken out Arthur, could you? Eames thought, Of course not.
If it had been a movie, Eames would have either managed to revive Fischer and get him to a hospital in time, or he would have had a chance to have a tearful goodbye with him, while scolding him for his foolishness. Likely while violins played, sorrowfully, in the background.
When Eames got to Robert he was already dead.
He did scold him, holding his body in his arms, getting soaked in his blood. Robert didn't hear him, though, and when that realization struck, Eames fell silent.
There was a mess to clean up. It wasn't the first time Eames had cleaned up a mess, and it likely wouldn't be the last. He tried to focus on what he needed to do, how he should get away, but he could only sit there for a while, holding Robert, feeling him grow cold and rigid in his arms.
Eventually, Eames did manage to do what needed to be done. It was dismal, exhaustive work, but it took the edge off of the sorrow that cut like glass into him.
He watched on the news, the next day, when Robert's body was discovered. He was mourned by the same people who had shed their crocodile tears for his father, and he was buried not a week after Maurice Fischer.
His job was done. Nothing was keeping him in Sydney. Considering the many ways he could be placed in Robert Fischer's home at the time of his death, remaining in Sydney was a bad idea. Still, Eames stayed, long enough to visit Robert's grave. The mourners were gone, the dirt was still fresh, and the sky overhead was an ominous gray.
It's true for me too, Robert had said, just before everything had fallen all to hell. Maybe he had only said that so that Eames would have something to comfort himself with when the nights were a little too dark and a little too cold.
"Should have believed me the first time," Eames said, kneeling down in front of Robert's tombstone. Still scolding him, still angry at him, still too in love with him to let go and move on. "You should have---"
You can't finish that sentence, and it scares the hell out of you. Yes, Robert had said that too, with his blue eyes flashing and his teeth locked in a grin.
Yes, it was true.
It scared the hell out of him.