Prompt Post No. 9
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Welcome to Round 9 of the Inception Kink Meme. This post will be closed to new prompts once it reaches five thousand comments.
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And I can make your dreams come true.”
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Arthur jogs through forest paths as the leaves begin to turn. He bathes in ponds where tiny fish nip at his toes, and lies beneath the night sky on dewy grass to count the stars. He sips chocolate in Paris, treks up mountains to see Buddhist temples in Tibet, and takes lovers to a cabin where an unbroken blanket of snow outside gives them all the more reason to stay in.
He feels everything. He sees everything.
And then he wakes up.
---
“So?” Mrs. Cobb asks, leaning over him. She is at once the most lovely and least desirable person he has ever awoken to.
Arthur allows his eyelids to slip closed, trying to hold onto the dream.
“It was wonderful,” he finally allows, swallowing thickly as he realizes he won’t be able to slip back into the fantasy so easily.
“I’m happy,” Mrs. Cobb says.
Arthur shudders as he feels the needle sliding out of his arm. The chaise longue shifts as his hostess stands. He hears the rustle of her dress - navy blue, off the shoulder; a lovely little piece, really - and the click of her heels.
When he finally opens his eyes, he’s alone in the room. He sits up shakily and combs a hand through his hair.
What time is it? What day?
“It’s still Sunday, Arthur.”
He starts.
“Did I say that aloud?” he asks, turning his head. Mr. Cobb is standing in the back of the room, leaning against the wall and its burgundy, floral-patterned wallpaper.
Mr. Cobb smiles wryly and shakes his head once in a negative. “Most people ask when they’ve been down as long as you have.”
“And how long was I down?”
“It’s hard to say.”
“Don’t you have a watch?” Arthur asks, raising an eyebrow.
Mr. Cobb smiles weakly and makes to check his watch, but before he can receive a reply, an unexpected pain in Arthur’s temples causes him to flinch. He looks down, feeling sensitive to the already dim light. Nausea wracks him suddenly, and he feels his knuckles turning white as he digs his hand into the back of the chaise.
His forearm is suddenly wrenched away from the couch in an unwarranted death-grip. Mr. Cobb’s entire demeanor has changed.
“Come on,” he says, tone desperate, expression somewhere near anger.
Arthur feels sick. He can barely even look at the other man, and the fight he puts up against the unbidden hold is disturbingly kitten-like. He’s cold and hot and sweating, and he thinks he might vomit all over the nice upholstery.
Then, out of nowhere, all of his discomfort disappears, and Mr. Cobb is back in his place near the wall. Arthur looks at him accusingly, but lets it go. Maybe he’s hallucinating from the Somnacin. He’s had strange after-effects before.
Mr. Cobb smiles weakly. “Half an hour. You’ve only been down for half an hour.”
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