Inception fic, 1/2
Oh my stars and garters, it is indeed fic. But it is safely skipped if you have no Inception interest. Someone threw out a prompt on the kink-meme that I could not ignore, and it did, in fact, threaten to eat my brain, to the tune of 8,300 words. I thought it was going to be longer, but the longer it got, the sloppier it got, so I decided to go with, "Hey, make each segment a drabble!"
So here you are, bloodbelieve. I hope it's what you had in mind.
Title: Ouroboros [1/2]
Author: Edoraslass
Rating: Gah, I'm terrible at ratings. Let's go with R for themes
Word count: 8,300
Pairings: Dom/Mal, Arthur/Eames, but more gen than shippy
Warnings: AU, Character death, psychosexual weirdness but all consensual, a wanton lack of linearity, possible headaches
Summary: What do Arthur and James Cobb have in common? Everything.
I seriously would not read the prompt if I were you. The prompt is a massive, massive spoiler. But if you don't mind, here it is.
~*~
James is not-even-two years old when his mother dies, and not-even-two years is very young to comprehend that his Maman has gone away, and that she is never going to come back.
He understands that Grandpère and Grandmère are very very upset. He understands why Phillipa kicks the priest in the leg and runs off to hide under the buffet table, even if he could never articulate that understanding. He doesn’t understand why Uncle Arthur doesn’t talk to anyone - Uncle Arthur always has time to talk to him and Phillipa - and he doesn’t understand where his daddy has gone.
~*~
Arthur’s drunk beyond the telling of it; drunk enough to make no protest when Eames slides Arthur’s shirt off. He doesn’t know why Eames is here, or why Eames is so silent. He doesn’t actually know where “here” is.
Arthur’s feet are wet, and there’s a splash of blood on his French cuff. He doesn’t care what happened, not with Mal in the ground.
Eames touches Arthur’s back lightly, saying curiously, “This birthmark is very like James’.”
Arthur almost chuckles instead of sobbing. “Aren’t I Uncle Arthur, Eames?”
But he’s brother to neither Mal nor Dom, and Eames knows it.
~*~
Arthur is perched on a balcony, therefore he must be in a hotel. Someone is tugging insistently at his waistband. “No, Arthur. No. No.”
The voice is raw with fear; he turns, and is surprised to see Eames. Eames never panics, not even in Cairo.
“Would you do that to the children? They adore Uncle Arthur.” The panic glimmers in the back of Eames’ eyes. “Would you do that to Dom, you fucking asshole?”
Arthur gives a ghastly bray of laughter. “I’m not going to jump,” he says. “I can’t, because I didn’t.”
He lets Eames drag him back inside.
~*~
Arthur doesn’t remember the days after Mal’s funeral clearly (“Mal”, because Arthur is a world-class compartmentalizer ). He does remember slugging Eames in the jaw, telling him to go fuck himself.
Eames disappears immediately after that with nary a word. Arthur has a sinking feeling that something is nagging inside Eames’ far-too-sharp-for-comfort brain; if anyone can come near the truth, it’ll be that nosy fucker. He wishes he could remember why he punched Eames hard enough to split his own knuckles open.
He can’t give it much consideration, though. He has his hands full trying to keep Cobb from self-destructing.
~*~
Not even two is very young to comprehend that Maman is never coming back. Sometimes James cries for her, wants to know where she’s gone, and always gets the same confusing answer. Uncle Arthur visits sometimes and he says it’s all right for him and Phillipa to cry. Sometimes Uncle Arthur looks like he might cry. But if he does, James doesn’t know it.
Not even two becomes two, then three, and James stops crying for Maman. He doesn’t remember her, not in memories. Only in pictures, in dreams where she holds him, singing about a white hen in barn.
~*~
“Don’t follow me,” Cobb had ordered. “You’re more than capable of working without me. I won’t ruin your life, too.”
Arthur ignored him, obviously. He wasn’t about to abandon Dom.
The first time Mal shows up on a job, Arthur is so stunned that he can’t even defend himself before she bashes his head in with a hubcap. He hasn’t vomited upon waking from the dream since he was eighteen; he can’t stop shaking.
When he asks Dom for an explanation, Dom only says, “It won’t happen again.”
Arthur knows it’s a lie, even if Dom doesn’t yet realize it.
~*~
It’s a dangerous line of work for someone like Arthur (not that there is anyone like Arthur). Things leak through, when the subconscious is opened up to others, and Arthur can’t afford to have any of his secrets leaked. His defenses are exquisitely impenetrable, all vital parts of his memory cordoned off, everything about himself before he met the Cobbs repressed with an almost frightening strength of determination.
Many have admired how orderly Arthur’s subconscious is. Others have commented on how brutal his projections are. Cobb has said how relaxing he finds Arthur’s control of his mind, but he would.
~*~
Mal returns, erratically, but often enough that Arthur must get used to it. Afterwards, he always tries to persuade Cobb to talk, to help him find ways to at least keep her under control while they’re working, but to no avail. Cobb can’t or won’t set his considerable will to silencing his dead wife.
“You’re no goddamn good as an architect so long as she’s fucking you up!” Arthur, at his wit’s end, is almost brutal. “You have to stop building, or she’s going to get us killed!”
Thankfully, Cobb sees reason, and Arthur starts looking for a new architect.
~*~
He’s at a hotel bar in Vladivostok when he receives a text from Eames. He hasn’t heard from Eames close to a year.
Two words: -Project Tamatebako
The die confirms this as reality. Fucking Christ, how did Eames … scratch that, he doesn’t want to know.
Arthur retreats to his room, locks the door, wedges a chair under the doorknob, then spends half the night wondering what the fuck he’ll do. He’s wanted so badly to have someone to confide in. Even if he can’t tell everything, he wants to be able to tell someone something.
Eventually, he replies: -Yes
~*~
Arthur and Dom take jobs, work alone or with other, transient team members. Cobb’s intensity frightens off some people; Arthur frightens off those he deems unworthy. He won’t put them at risk because of some amateur.
Of course Dom is changed, but working seems to at least distract him. Of course he’s obsessed with clearing his name; Arthur spends precious free time researching laws and loopholes and statutes until his head aches. He’s not entirely sure why; he knows better than anyone that Cobb will come home. But it’s better than sitting on his hands, waiting for Dom to crack.
~*~
Months later, another text.
-It sounds mad
This time, Arthur doesn’t hesitate.
-I’m aware
-You might have said
-Said what, exactly?
-Anything, Arthur
Abruptly Arthur remembers why he hit Eames: that bloody birthmark. Eames was sure it meant Arthur was James’ father. That Mal cheated on Dom with Arthur. Arthur had punched him, and drunkenly babbled enough to set Eames searching for evidence that Arthur was or was not asshole enough to fuck his best friend’s wife.
-I did, if you recall. You called me a heartless motherfucker. And now you believe me?
-More things in heaven and earth, Horatio.
~*~
Just a week later:
-Am I your security blanket, then, Arthur?
Arthur doesn’t know what to say to that, other than
-Would that bother you?
An hour later:
- I believe so. It’s a bit…creepy, isn’t it?
-My whole goddamn life is a bit creepy.
-I can only imagine.
This strikes Arthur as flippant.
-No, Eames. You fucking well can’t.
Half an hour passes.
-Perhaps it would be best if we don’t talk for a while.
-And how is that different?
Arthur shouldn’t have lashed out; Eames is only trying to understand him, which is, after all, what he does.
~*~
Only years of restraint keep Arthur’s jaw from hitting the floor when Saito contacts them for a demonstration of their expertise. He’d always wondered how Saito came to know his father, but he hadn’t guessed that “He worked on a project for me” meant “I hired him to break into someone’s mind.”
Saito never gives away that he knows Arthur, not by implication or expression, not that Arthur honestly thought he would. Saito is inscrutable as it pleases him to be, and as familiar with Saito as Arthur is, even Arthur is hard-put to tell what the man is thinking.
~*~
Of course Cobb wants to hire Eames for something like this, and Arthur can’t give Dom a real, solid reason why they should use someone else.
Eames is his regular, gaudy self, which gives Arthur hope that he will tactfully stick to discussion regarding only the job, or variations of mocking the stick up Arthur’s ass. And mostly, that’s what happens. Eames loves to show off for new team members, and there are three shiny new people to impress, including Saito.
Once or twice, however, out of the corner of his eye, Arthur catches Eames regarding him far too seriously.
~*~
Eames appears in the warehouse late one night; only Arthur is there.
“No,” Arthur states flatly. “We’re not having this conversation until this job is finished.”
“Answer one question,” Eames says, as if he’ll stop with one. His voice is strangely apprehensive. “Why tell me?”
Arthur has a million answers, but decides on, “Because you always felt safe.”
Eames is visibly taken aback, which compels Arthur to add quietly, “And Uncle Arthur always trusted you.”
Eames opens his mouth to speak, but not a sound emerges. After a long, tense silence, he leaves, and Arthur doesn’t know what that signifies.
~*~
Arthur tries to talk Saito out of participating, late one night in a sprawling Parisian apartment.
“I should like to see for myself that my investment in you is well-founded,” Saito says, almost smiling.
It stings, to be referred to as “an investment”, but of course Arthur remembers what Saito doesn’t yet know. Twenty-five years from now, Saito will consider him almost a son, but right now, Arthur is simply the culmination of almost seventy years of painstaking research. Arthur had assumed he was used to this kind of cognitive dissonance by now.
What a stupid, stupid thing to think.
~*~
Arthur tries not to be distracted by Saito’s presence, but he fucks up royally by missing that Fischer’s prepared for invasion. He hasn’t made a mistake like that in years.
Only when they’re back on the first level does Arthur find out Saito’s in limbo, and Cobb has gone to retrieve him.
Afterwards, he goes to Saito’s hotel to apologize, but Saito merely says “If the end is good, all is good,” and Arthur is politely escorted from the suite.
He wants to be worried about Saito’s state of mind, but he’s only an investment, and doesn’t have the right.
~*~
Eames approaches Arthur outside the airport. “How about a drink?” he offers. “In celebration a job spectacularly well-done?”
“You mean you want to get me liquored up and force me to talk?” Arthur shoots back. “I’m not in the mood, Mr. Eames.”
“When will you be in the mood, Arthur?” Eames is a little testy.
“Why don’t you talk to Saito instead?” Arthur suggests.
Eames blinks. “Saito? Whatever for?”
Arthur hands him a business card. “That’s his private number. He’s expecting your call.”
Saito agreed to answer Eames’ questions. It’ll get Eames off Arthur’s back until he’s ready to talk.
~*~
Daddy promises that he won’t ever stay gone so long again. Sometimes he goes away to work with Uncle Arthur and other people, but he calls every day and he always comes back quick as he can. James is happy.
Uncle Arthur visits more now. He brings James and Phillipa presents: a thing with beads called an abacus, chemistry sets and lots of books, a dinosaur in pieces that Daddy helps put together. Uncle Arthur knows everything, and never talks to James like he’s a baby.
He never stays very long, though he sends postcards and e-mails. James likes e-mail.
~*~
They have their pick of jobs; Arthur hasn’t had this much fun working since Mal died. Cobb is more relaxed, naturally; Ariadne brings a fresh energy to each production; Yusuf enjoys the novelty of working with people who aren’t lotus-eaters.
Eames comes and goes. When he’s there, he never refers to Project Tamatebako, but there’s something nebulous in his demeanor which tells Arthur he’s aware of it at all times. This should be nerve-wracking; instead, Arthur finds it soothing. He suspects that Eames doesn’t quite believe completely, which isn’t surprising. But he’s willing to consider it, and that’s what matters.
~*~
He visits Cobb’s home more often; perhaps he shouldn’t, but Arthur can’t help himself and it would look strange if he didn’t. He sends the children postcards and presents: an abacus, chemistry sets, countless books.
He almost doesn’t buy the abacus; seeing it on a shelf in Hong Kong unnerves him so badly that Eames has to spend the next two days trying to keep Arthur from falling apart.
He does buy it, though. He has to, because he remembers playing with it endlessly, loving the click of the beads. But he makes Eames box it up and mail it.
~*~
“How do you stand it?” The question is subdued, which Arthur chalks up to a rather large quantity of rather good bourbon. It’s also apropos of absolutely nothing, as Arthur has just offered to find a drunken six-year-old to help Eames dress himself.
“Your appalling sartorial decisions?” Arthur asks, in hopes of derailing the conversation. “Sometimes I buy clothing at Wal-Mart and burn them to appease the fashion gods.”
“Arthur.” Eames’ voice is reproachful, faintly insulted, and compellingly insistent.
Arthur looks away from Eames, across the restaurant at a dreadful faux-Kandinsky print. “It’s not as if I have another choice.”
~*~
Arthur’s not been keeping track of time. It’s a test run; it’s only a small adjustment to the compound. They’ve done this a hundred times before.
It’s only when he glances at his iPhone to check tomorrow’s schedule when he realizes, and launches himself at Dom’s already-convulsing body.
Anaphylactic shock, the doctors will say. Nothing Dom’s ever encountered before. No way anyone could have known. No way to have stopped it.
Arthur has to be kept from beating the new chemist, Tarasovna, into a pulp. Of all people, Arthur should have known. He could have stopped it. Should have tried.
~*~
James is seven when his daddy breaks his promise. He promised to never be gone so long again, but he goes off to Rome to work with Uncle Arthur and Mr. Eames, and he doesn’t come back.
“Daddy got allergic,” Phillipa tells him when they’re huddled together in her bed the night before the funeral. “He drank something and he got allergic.”
James knows what allergic is; Steven at school can’t have peanut butter crackers because he’s allergic, it makes him itchy and his face swells up. But James doesn’t know how being itchy could have made his father die.
~*~
James clutches Grandpère’s hand at the funeral. He wanted to stand by Uncle Arthur, but Uncle Arthur won’t talk to anyone. He only stares at the casket, and it scares James.
He and Phillipa will go live with Grandpère and Grandmère. He wants to live with Uncle Arthur, but Mr. Eames says Uncle Arthur is ill, and needs to go away until he’s not so sad any more. He promises that Uncle Arthur will write and send presents.
James clings to Phillipa afterwards, when everyone is eating and talking about Daddy. He doesn’t remember who the tall Japanese man is.
~*~
Arthur doesn’t remember Dom’s funeral; he’s busy trying not to remember his father’s, and not succeeding. The surreality makes him queasy: there he is at seven, holding tightly to his grandfather’s hand and crying, here he is at thirty-one, staring at a casket, castigating himself for being so goddamn complacent.
He hopes Eames truly believes him now. If not, he’ll surely have Arthur locked up tomorrow; tonight Arthur won’t be able to shut himself up with liquor. He’s going to talk.
His totem tells him this is real. He has to believe it, or lose his hard-won grip on sanity.
~*~
James fights packing all his toys and clothes into boxes. He doesn’t want to leave his house; he’s never lived anywhere else. He throws himself on the floor; kicks and screams and bites Philippa when she tries to hug him.
He wants his daddy. He wants his Uncle Arthur. He wants to stay in his small snug bedroom; he doesn’t understand why his grandparents won’t move into this house and stay.
He falls asleep in the middle of the floor, and doesn’t wake when Grandpère carries him to bed. He dreams of Maman crying, and doesn’t know who she is.
~*~
Arthur wakes on a private jet to he-doesn’t-know-where. He wasn’t asked his opinion on the destination. Eames wouldn’t tell him and he doesn’t particularly care, at any rate.
“I don’t know what happens after this,” Arthur realizes suddenly.
Eames glances over at him. “How do you mean?’
“I mean I don’t know what happened to him after my father’s funeral.”
Eames frowns. “You never saw him again? That seems - peculiar.”
“He visited,” Arthur muses. “But I don’t know what he did when he wasn’t visiting.”
Eames stares out the window. He looks exhausted. “I suppose you’re about to find out.”
~*~
They’ve been in Cyprus a month, and Arthur’s grief over Cobb’s death is still as fresh as it was at the funeral. Eames is patient, and doesn’t overly pressure him to talk.
In the middle of the night, Arthur is awakened by a startling realization. When Eames stumbles into the kitchen in the morning, Arthur blurts out, “I’m relieved.”
“Pardon?” Eames is still muzzy with sleep.
“I’m sorry that he’s gone,” Arthur explains, voice shaking. “But it’s…it’s a relief. It’s so much less pressure.”
He can’t tell if Eames understands or not. Arthur’s not sure that he wants him to.
~*~
Arthur always visits on the children’s birthdays. Sometimes Eames accompanies him, sometimes he’s on his own. Sometimes it’s easy and comfortable, sometimes it’s a trip down the rabbit hole, and he has to cut the visit short.
He stops visiting when James is eleven. James is starting to look too familiar; people will ask questions. He continues to keep in touch, though. He can’t abandon Dom’s children.
Eames stops visiting when James is twelve. He comes back from France looking deeply shaken, immediately leaves again for parts unknown, and Arthur knows that if Eames wasn’t convinced before, he is now.
~*~
Phillipa develops an eating disorder, James is thrown out of four exclusive schools before he’s eleven. He fights, steals, lies, even blackmails; their psychiatrist says that both siblings have “control and abandonment issues”. She doesn’t tell them that, of course - Phillipa hacks into her computer so they can read their files.
Their benefactor suggests that James be sent to an elite military school; surprisingly, he likes it. Not the tedious hierarchy; he likes the structure, the precision, the strict-if-not-challenging curriculum. He likes the discipline.
He’s there three years before being expelled for breaking into Provost’s office to steal a PASIV.
~*~
What shall I do with you, James?
James, whatever are we going to do with you?
I don’t know, sir.
Why should I care? Like it’s my decision anyway.
Have you any marketable skills? Any fields you should like to consider as a career? We must keep you busy while tests are being run.
I love you, James, but I’m an old man. I don’t know how to help you - perhaps if your grandmother was still with us… Your father’s friend, Mr. Saito, has made a suggestion, and I believe it might be just the thing.
I don’t know, sir, if my skills are marketable. They were - will be marketable. Maybe…are you conducting PASIV research? Is that underway yet? I do know that device extremely well; perhaps I could be of help.
Is that why he’s been dumping money on us all these years? Because he’s a friend of our father’s?
Indeed? I would not have guessed - the PASIV. I believe, James, that I have just the niche for you.
He worked with your father occasionally, and what you refer to as “dumping money” is Saito concerning himself with the welfare of an old friend’s children. Don’t be ungracious, James.
~*~
Japan is very different. James is a bit overwhelmed, but voraciously curious, as always. He’s theoretically living under Saito’s roof, but they rarely see one another. Saito is quite busy, and James himself is immersed in classes. He has private tutors for everything: language lessons, physics, a variety of martial-arts, even weapons training.
He doesn’t know why he’s taught these last two, but he doesn’t especially care. He’s fourteen; for the first time, he feels actively challenged, unfettered, and James is more than willing to give the required weekly progress reports to Saito, excited to share all his new knowledge.
~*~
It’s difficult to make friends when one is being privately tutored, but Saito makes certain that James meets other teenagers - the children of other corporate magnates, diplomats, of actors and scientists. He goes to clubs, concerts, parties, dates the daughter of a Persian record producer, loses his virginity to the son of a Kenyan ambassador.
James doesn’t realize it, but as Saito’s ward, peculiarly self-possessed, intelligent, and impeccable even when in jeans and a t-shirt, he’s a somewhat romantic figure to his friends. It also doesn’t hurt that he has a reputation for being wild, and that he does know.
~*~
When James is fifteen, his grandfather dies. Neither Uncle Arthur nor Eames come to the funeral, although they send a lavish flower arrangement, and James can’t help but be a little hurt by that. He’s gathered, though, that they’re not particularly welcome in France.
Phillipa comes to live in Osaka; for that, James is grateful. E-mail and Skype aren’t the same of having your sister in the same house as you; he’s missed her steadying presence.
But come autumn, she’s bound for MIT to study biochemistry, and James is starting to grow dangerously bored with his studies and his friends.
~*~
Some days Arthur hates opening any e-mail or text from Saito. Sometimes, the messages are regarding actual jobs; sometimes, however, they’re regarding James. What classes he should be taught, where he should spend the summer, how much leeway the boy should be given.
One day Arthur snaps and says, “Anything you do will be right, because you already did it,” and hangs up on Saito. Eames literally smacks the back of his head, which sometimes Arthur needs, then spends an hour on the phone repairing the damage, and Saito doesn’t consult Arthur about James again. Fortunately, Eames is very persuasive.
~*~
For James’ sixteenth birthday, Saito gives him an out-of-date, disabled PASIV, and insanely complicated research documents regarding its usage. James is startled to see the name “Cobb” all over the reports, and for nearly a week, he doesn’t leave his room, obsessively poring over each page.
Of course he’s heard of dream-sharing; who hasn’t? But he’d no idea that his stodgy grandfather created the technology, that his parents were so deeply involved in the development. And of course he wonders if his parents were only interested in the academic application; wonders exactly what kind of work they were involved in.
~*~
Over the next year, James becomes as much of an expert on the PASIV as he can. He stalks internet message boards, exchanges flurries of e-mails with Phillipa, researches every urban legend and doesn’t stop to wonder why Saito allows and even enables this certainly-inappropriate interest.
He does now wonder about his father’s “work colleagues”. He tries to snake information out of Uncle Arthur and Eames; Uncle Arthur won’t answer those e-mails, and Eames is more likely to send a thousand-word reply about food in Mumbai.
Naturally, that only confirms James’ gleeful suspicion that his father ran an extraction team.
Part two
So here you are, bloodbelieve. I hope it's what you had in mind.
Title: Ouroboros [1/2]
Author: Edoraslass
Rating: Gah, I'm terrible at ratings. Let's go with R for themes
Word count: 8,300
Pairings: Dom/Mal, Arthur/Eames, but more gen than shippy
Warnings: AU, Character death, psychosexual weirdness but all consensual, a wanton lack of linearity, possible headaches
Summary: What do Arthur and James Cobb have in common? Everything.
I seriously would not read the prompt if I were you. The prompt is a massive, massive spoiler. But if you don't mind, here it is.
~*~
James is not-even-two years old when his mother dies, and not-even-two years is very young to comprehend that his Maman has gone away, and that she is never going to come back.
He understands that Grandpère and Grandmère are very very upset. He understands why Phillipa kicks the priest in the leg and runs off to hide under the buffet table, even if he could never articulate that understanding. He doesn’t understand why Uncle Arthur doesn’t talk to anyone - Uncle Arthur always has time to talk to him and Phillipa - and he doesn’t understand where his daddy has gone.
~*~
Arthur’s drunk beyond the telling of it; drunk enough to make no protest when Eames slides Arthur’s shirt off. He doesn’t know why Eames is here, or why Eames is so silent. He doesn’t actually know where “here” is.
Arthur’s feet are wet, and there’s a splash of blood on his French cuff. He doesn’t care what happened, not with Mal in the ground.
Eames touches Arthur’s back lightly, saying curiously, “This birthmark is very like James’.”
Arthur almost chuckles instead of sobbing. “Aren’t I Uncle Arthur, Eames?”
But he’s brother to neither Mal nor Dom, and Eames knows it.
~*~
Arthur is perched on a balcony, therefore he must be in a hotel. Someone is tugging insistently at his waistband. “No, Arthur. No. No.”
The voice is raw with fear; he turns, and is surprised to see Eames. Eames never panics, not even in Cairo.
“Would you do that to the children? They adore Uncle Arthur.” The panic glimmers in the back of Eames’ eyes. “Would you do that to Dom, you fucking asshole?”
Arthur gives a ghastly bray of laughter. “I’m not going to jump,” he says. “I can’t, because I didn’t.”
He lets Eames drag him back inside.
~*~
Arthur doesn’t remember the days after Mal’s funeral clearly (“Mal”, because Arthur is a world-class compartmentalizer ). He does remember slugging Eames in the jaw, telling him to go fuck himself.
Eames disappears immediately after that with nary a word. Arthur has a sinking feeling that something is nagging inside Eames’ far-too-sharp-for-comfort brain; if anyone can come near the truth, it’ll be that nosy fucker. He wishes he could remember why he punched Eames hard enough to split his own knuckles open.
He can’t give it much consideration, though. He has his hands full trying to keep Cobb from self-destructing.
~*~
Not even two is very young to comprehend that Maman is never coming back. Sometimes James cries for her, wants to know where she’s gone, and always gets the same confusing answer. Uncle Arthur visits sometimes and he says it’s all right for him and Phillipa to cry. Sometimes Uncle Arthur looks like he might cry. But if he does, James doesn’t know it.
Not even two becomes two, then three, and James stops crying for Maman. He doesn’t remember her, not in memories. Only in pictures, in dreams where she holds him, singing about a white hen in barn.
~*~
“Don’t follow me,” Cobb had ordered. “You’re more than capable of working without me. I won’t ruin your life, too.”
Arthur ignored him, obviously. He wasn’t about to abandon Dom.
The first time Mal shows up on a job, Arthur is so stunned that he can’t even defend himself before she bashes his head in with a hubcap. He hasn’t vomited upon waking from the dream since he was eighteen; he can’t stop shaking.
When he asks Dom for an explanation, Dom only says, “It won’t happen again.”
Arthur knows it’s a lie, even if Dom doesn’t yet realize it.
~*~
It’s a dangerous line of work for someone like Arthur (not that there is anyone like Arthur). Things leak through, when the subconscious is opened up to others, and Arthur can’t afford to have any of his secrets leaked. His defenses are exquisitely impenetrable, all vital parts of his memory cordoned off, everything about himself before he met the Cobbs repressed with an almost frightening strength of determination.
Many have admired how orderly Arthur’s subconscious is. Others have commented on how brutal his projections are. Cobb has said how relaxing he finds Arthur’s control of his mind, but he would.
~*~
Mal returns, erratically, but often enough that Arthur must get used to it. Afterwards, he always tries to persuade Cobb to talk, to help him find ways to at least keep her under control while they’re working, but to no avail. Cobb can’t or won’t set his considerable will to silencing his dead wife.
“You’re no goddamn good as an architect so long as she’s fucking you up!” Arthur, at his wit’s end, is almost brutal. “You have to stop building, or she’s going to get us killed!”
Thankfully, Cobb sees reason, and Arthur starts looking for a new architect.
~*~
He’s at a hotel bar in Vladivostok when he receives a text from Eames. He hasn’t heard from Eames close to a year.
Two words: -Project Tamatebako
The die confirms this as reality. Fucking Christ, how did Eames … scratch that, he doesn’t want to know.
Arthur retreats to his room, locks the door, wedges a chair under the doorknob, then spends half the night wondering what the fuck he’ll do. He’s wanted so badly to have someone to confide in. Even if he can’t tell everything, he wants to be able to tell someone something.
Eventually, he replies: -Yes
~*~
Arthur and Dom take jobs, work alone or with other, transient team members. Cobb’s intensity frightens off some people; Arthur frightens off those he deems unworthy. He won’t put them at risk because of some amateur.
Of course Dom is changed, but working seems to at least distract him. Of course he’s obsessed with clearing his name; Arthur spends precious free time researching laws and loopholes and statutes until his head aches. He’s not entirely sure why; he knows better than anyone that Cobb will come home. But it’s better than sitting on his hands, waiting for Dom to crack.
~*~
Months later, another text.
-It sounds mad
This time, Arthur doesn’t hesitate.
-I’m aware
-You might have said
-Said what, exactly?
-Anything, Arthur
Abruptly Arthur remembers why he hit Eames: that bloody birthmark. Eames was sure it meant Arthur was James’ father. That Mal cheated on Dom with Arthur. Arthur had punched him, and drunkenly babbled enough to set Eames searching for evidence that Arthur was or was not asshole enough to fuck his best friend’s wife.
-I did, if you recall. You called me a heartless motherfucker. And now you believe me?
-More things in heaven and earth, Horatio.
~*~
Just a week later:
-Am I your security blanket, then, Arthur?
Arthur doesn’t know what to say to that, other than
-Would that bother you?
An hour later:
- I believe so. It’s a bit…creepy, isn’t it?
-My whole goddamn life is a bit creepy.
-I can only imagine.
This strikes Arthur as flippant.
-No, Eames. You fucking well can’t.
Half an hour passes.
-Perhaps it would be best if we don’t talk for a while.
-And how is that different?
Arthur shouldn’t have lashed out; Eames is only trying to understand him, which is, after all, what he does.
~*~
Only years of restraint keep Arthur’s jaw from hitting the floor when Saito contacts them for a demonstration of their expertise. He’d always wondered how Saito came to know his father, but he hadn’t guessed that “He worked on a project for me” meant “I hired him to break into someone’s mind.”
Saito never gives away that he knows Arthur, not by implication or expression, not that Arthur honestly thought he would. Saito is inscrutable as it pleases him to be, and as familiar with Saito as Arthur is, even Arthur is hard-put to tell what the man is thinking.
~*~
Of course Cobb wants to hire Eames for something like this, and Arthur can’t give Dom a real, solid reason why they should use someone else.
Eames is his regular, gaudy self, which gives Arthur hope that he will tactfully stick to discussion regarding only the job, or variations of mocking the stick up Arthur’s ass. And mostly, that’s what happens. Eames loves to show off for new team members, and there are three shiny new people to impress, including Saito.
Once or twice, however, out of the corner of his eye, Arthur catches Eames regarding him far too seriously.
~*~
Eames appears in the warehouse late one night; only Arthur is there.
“No,” Arthur states flatly. “We’re not having this conversation until this job is finished.”
“Answer one question,” Eames says, as if he’ll stop with one. His voice is strangely apprehensive. “Why tell me?”
Arthur has a million answers, but decides on, “Because you always felt safe.”
Eames is visibly taken aback, which compels Arthur to add quietly, “And Uncle Arthur always trusted you.”
Eames opens his mouth to speak, but not a sound emerges. After a long, tense silence, he leaves, and Arthur doesn’t know what that signifies.
~*~
Arthur tries to talk Saito out of participating, late one night in a sprawling Parisian apartment.
“I should like to see for myself that my investment in you is well-founded,” Saito says, almost smiling.
It stings, to be referred to as “an investment”, but of course Arthur remembers what Saito doesn’t yet know. Twenty-five years from now, Saito will consider him almost a son, but right now, Arthur is simply the culmination of almost seventy years of painstaking research. Arthur had assumed he was used to this kind of cognitive dissonance by now.
What a stupid, stupid thing to think.
~*~
Arthur tries not to be distracted by Saito’s presence, but he fucks up royally by missing that Fischer’s prepared for invasion. He hasn’t made a mistake like that in years.
Only when they’re back on the first level does Arthur find out Saito’s in limbo, and Cobb has gone to retrieve him.
Afterwards, he goes to Saito’s hotel to apologize, but Saito merely says “If the end is good, all is good,” and Arthur is politely escorted from the suite.
He wants to be worried about Saito’s state of mind, but he’s only an investment, and doesn’t have the right.
~*~
Eames approaches Arthur outside the airport. “How about a drink?” he offers. “In celebration a job spectacularly well-done?”
“You mean you want to get me liquored up and force me to talk?” Arthur shoots back. “I’m not in the mood, Mr. Eames.”
“When will you be in the mood, Arthur?” Eames is a little testy.
“Why don’t you talk to Saito instead?” Arthur suggests.
Eames blinks. “Saito? Whatever for?”
Arthur hands him a business card. “That’s his private number. He’s expecting your call.”
Saito agreed to answer Eames’ questions. It’ll get Eames off Arthur’s back until he’s ready to talk.
~*~
Daddy promises that he won’t ever stay gone so long again. Sometimes he goes away to work with Uncle Arthur and other people, but he calls every day and he always comes back quick as he can. James is happy.
Uncle Arthur visits more now. He brings James and Phillipa presents: a thing with beads called an abacus, chemistry sets and lots of books, a dinosaur in pieces that Daddy helps put together. Uncle Arthur knows everything, and never talks to James like he’s a baby.
He never stays very long, though he sends postcards and e-mails. James likes e-mail.
~*~
They have their pick of jobs; Arthur hasn’t had this much fun working since Mal died. Cobb is more relaxed, naturally; Ariadne brings a fresh energy to each production; Yusuf enjoys the novelty of working with people who aren’t lotus-eaters.
Eames comes and goes. When he’s there, he never refers to Project Tamatebako, but there’s something nebulous in his demeanor which tells Arthur he’s aware of it at all times. This should be nerve-wracking; instead, Arthur finds it soothing. He suspects that Eames doesn’t quite believe completely, which isn’t surprising. But he’s willing to consider it, and that’s what matters.
~*~
He visits Cobb’s home more often; perhaps he shouldn’t, but Arthur can’t help himself and it would look strange if he didn’t. He sends the children postcards and presents: an abacus, chemistry sets, countless books.
He almost doesn’t buy the abacus; seeing it on a shelf in Hong Kong unnerves him so badly that Eames has to spend the next two days trying to keep Arthur from falling apart.
He does buy it, though. He has to, because he remembers playing with it endlessly, loving the click of the beads. But he makes Eames box it up and mail it.
~*~
“How do you stand it?” The question is subdued, which Arthur chalks up to a rather large quantity of rather good bourbon. It’s also apropos of absolutely nothing, as Arthur has just offered to find a drunken six-year-old to help Eames dress himself.
“Your appalling sartorial decisions?” Arthur asks, in hopes of derailing the conversation. “Sometimes I buy clothing at Wal-Mart and burn them to appease the fashion gods.”
“Arthur.” Eames’ voice is reproachful, faintly insulted, and compellingly insistent.
Arthur looks away from Eames, across the restaurant at a dreadful faux-Kandinsky print. “It’s not as if I have another choice.”
~*~
Arthur’s not been keeping track of time. It’s a test run; it’s only a small adjustment to the compound. They’ve done this a hundred times before.
It’s only when he glances at his iPhone to check tomorrow’s schedule when he realizes, and launches himself at Dom’s already-convulsing body.
Anaphylactic shock, the doctors will say. Nothing Dom’s ever encountered before. No way anyone could have known. No way to have stopped it.
Arthur has to be kept from beating the new chemist, Tarasovna, into a pulp. Of all people, Arthur should have known. He could have stopped it. Should have tried.
~*~
James is seven when his daddy breaks his promise. He promised to never be gone so long again, but he goes off to Rome to work with Uncle Arthur and Mr. Eames, and he doesn’t come back.
“Daddy got allergic,” Phillipa tells him when they’re huddled together in her bed the night before the funeral. “He drank something and he got allergic.”
James knows what allergic is; Steven at school can’t have peanut butter crackers because he’s allergic, it makes him itchy and his face swells up. But James doesn’t know how being itchy could have made his father die.
~*~
James clutches Grandpère’s hand at the funeral. He wanted to stand by Uncle Arthur, but Uncle Arthur won’t talk to anyone. He only stares at the casket, and it scares James.
He and Phillipa will go live with Grandpère and Grandmère. He wants to live with Uncle Arthur, but Mr. Eames says Uncle Arthur is ill, and needs to go away until he’s not so sad any more. He promises that Uncle Arthur will write and send presents.
James clings to Phillipa afterwards, when everyone is eating and talking about Daddy. He doesn’t remember who the tall Japanese man is.
~*~
Arthur doesn’t remember Dom’s funeral; he’s busy trying not to remember his father’s, and not succeeding. The surreality makes him queasy: there he is at seven, holding tightly to his grandfather’s hand and crying, here he is at thirty-one, staring at a casket, castigating himself for being so goddamn complacent.
He hopes Eames truly believes him now. If not, he’ll surely have Arthur locked up tomorrow; tonight Arthur won’t be able to shut himself up with liquor. He’s going to talk.
His totem tells him this is real. He has to believe it, or lose his hard-won grip on sanity.
~*~
James fights packing all his toys and clothes into boxes. He doesn’t want to leave his house; he’s never lived anywhere else. He throws himself on the floor; kicks and screams and bites Philippa when she tries to hug him.
He wants his daddy. He wants his Uncle Arthur. He wants to stay in his small snug bedroom; he doesn’t understand why his grandparents won’t move into this house and stay.
He falls asleep in the middle of the floor, and doesn’t wake when Grandpère carries him to bed. He dreams of Maman crying, and doesn’t know who she is.
~*~
Arthur wakes on a private jet to he-doesn’t-know-where. He wasn’t asked his opinion on the destination. Eames wouldn’t tell him and he doesn’t particularly care, at any rate.
“I don’t know what happens after this,” Arthur realizes suddenly.
Eames glances over at him. “How do you mean?’
“I mean I don’t know what happened to him after my father’s funeral.”
Eames frowns. “You never saw him again? That seems - peculiar.”
“He visited,” Arthur muses. “But I don’t know what he did when he wasn’t visiting.”
Eames stares out the window. He looks exhausted. “I suppose you’re about to find out.”
~*~
They’ve been in Cyprus a month, and Arthur’s grief over Cobb’s death is still as fresh as it was at the funeral. Eames is patient, and doesn’t overly pressure him to talk.
In the middle of the night, Arthur is awakened by a startling realization. When Eames stumbles into the kitchen in the morning, Arthur blurts out, “I’m relieved.”
“Pardon?” Eames is still muzzy with sleep.
“I’m sorry that he’s gone,” Arthur explains, voice shaking. “But it’s…it’s a relief. It’s so much less pressure.”
He can’t tell if Eames understands or not. Arthur’s not sure that he wants him to.
~*~
Arthur always visits on the children’s birthdays. Sometimes Eames accompanies him, sometimes he’s on his own. Sometimes it’s easy and comfortable, sometimes it’s a trip down the rabbit hole, and he has to cut the visit short.
He stops visiting when James is eleven. James is starting to look too familiar; people will ask questions. He continues to keep in touch, though. He can’t abandon Dom’s children.
Eames stops visiting when James is twelve. He comes back from France looking deeply shaken, immediately leaves again for parts unknown, and Arthur knows that if Eames wasn’t convinced before, he is now.
~*~
Phillipa develops an eating disorder, James is thrown out of four exclusive schools before he’s eleven. He fights, steals, lies, even blackmails; their psychiatrist says that both siblings have “control and abandonment issues”. She doesn’t tell them that, of course - Phillipa hacks into her computer so they can read their files.
Their benefactor suggests that James be sent to an elite military school; surprisingly, he likes it. Not the tedious hierarchy; he likes the structure, the precision, the strict-if-not-challenging curriculum. He likes the discipline.
He’s there three years before being expelled for breaking into Provost’s office to steal a PASIV.
~*~
What shall I do with you, James?
James, whatever are we going to do with you?
I don’t know, sir.
Why should I care? Like it’s my decision anyway.
Have you any marketable skills? Any fields you should like to consider as a career? We must keep you busy while tests are being run.
I love you, James, but I’m an old man. I don’t know how to help you - perhaps if your grandmother was still with us… Your father’s friend, Mr. Saito, has made a suggestion, and I believe it might be just the thing.
I don’t know, sir, if my skills are marketable. They were - will be marketable. Maybe…are you conducting PASIV research? Is that underway yet? I do know that device extremely well; perhaps I could be of help.
Is that why he’s been dumping money on us all these years? Because he’s a friend of our father’s?
Indeed? I would not have guessed - the PASIV. I believe, James, that I have just the niche for you.
He worked with your father occasionally, and what you refer to as “dumping money” is Saito concerning himself with the welfare of an old friend’s children. Don’t be ungracious, James.
~*~
Japan is very different. James is a bit overwhelmed, but voraciously curious, as always. He’s theoretically living under Saito’s roof, but they rarely see one another. Saito is quite busy, and James himself is immersed in classes. He has private tutors for everything: language lessons, physics, a variety of martial-arts, even weapons training.
He doesn’t know why he’s taught these last two, but he doesn’t especially care. He’s fourteen; for the first time, he feels actively challenged, unfettered, and James is more than willing to give the required weekly progress reports to Saito, excited to share all his new knowledge.
~*~
It’s difficult to make friends when one is being privately tutored, but Saito makes certain that James meets other teenagers - the children of other corporate magnates, diplomats, of actors and scientists. He goes to clubs, concerts, parties, dates the daughter of a Persian record producer, loses his virginity to the son of a Kenyan ambassador.
James doesn’t realize it, but as Saito’s ward, peculiarly self-possessed, intelligent, and impeccable even when in jeans and a t-shirt, he’s a somewhat romantic figure to his friends. It also doesn’t hurt that he has a reputation for being wild, and that he does know.
~*~
When James is fifteen, his grandfather dies. Neither Uncle Arthur nor Eames come to the funeral, although they send a lavish flower arrangement, and James can’t help but be a little hurt by that. He’s gathered, though, that they’re not particularly welcome in France.
Phillipa comes to live in Osaka; for that, James is grateful. E-mail and Skype aren’t the same of having your sister in the same house as you; he’s missed her steadying presence.
But come autumn, she’s bound for MIT to study biochemistry, and James is starting to grow dangerously bored with his studies and his friends.
~*~
Some days Arthur hates opening any e-mail or text from Saito. Sometimes, the messages are regarding actual jobs; sometimes, however, they’re regarding James. What classes he should be taught, where he should spend the summer, how much leeway the boy should be given.
One day Arthur snaps and says, “Anything you do will be right, because you already did it,” and hangs up on Saito. Eames literally smacks the back of his head, which sometimes Arthur needs, then spends an hour on the phone repairing the damage, and Saito doesn’t consult Arthur about James again. Fortunately, Eames is very persuasive.
~*~
For James’ sixteenth birthday, Saito gives him an out-of-date, disabled PASIV, and insanely complicated research documents regarding its usage. James is startled to see the name “Cobb” all over the reports, and for nearly a week, he doesn’t leave his room, obsessively poring over each page.
Of course he’s heard of dream-sharing; who hasn’t? But he’d no idea that his stodgy grandfather created the technology, that his parents were so deeply involved in the development. And of course he wonders if his parents were only interested in the academic application; wonders exactly what kind of work they were involved in.
~*~
Over the next year, James becomes as much of an expert on the PASIV as he can. He stalks internet message boards, exchanges flurries of e-mails with Phillipa, researches every urban legend and doesn’t stop to wonder why Saito allows and even enables this certainly-inappropriate interest.
He does now wonder about his father’s “work colleagues”. He tries to snake information out of Uncle Arthur and Eames; Uncle Arthur won’t answer those e-mails, and Eames is more likely to send a thousand-word reply about food in Mumbai.
Naturally, that only confirms James’ gleeful suspicion that his father ran an extraction team.
Part two