Arthur wakes in excruciating pain. His head hurts so badly he can barely open his eyes. His right hand is on fire. The fire races up his arm when he attempts to flex. A small noise to the right of the bed catches his attention. His .45 is on the night table in the drawer, but just the thought of reaching for it causes pain to radiate from wrist to fingertips. He could try to make a move with his left hand, but any intruder worth his salt will take him down before he can make that move. The pain in his head is marginally less than that in his hand so he chooses to open his eyes instead.
Thankfully, the burgundy blackout curtains are shut tightly. He thinks they were open, but ... He's grateful for the low light in the room. Everything reads a little blurry and still there are the small sounds, fabric shifting to his right. With great effort, he manages to turn his head.
What he sees gives him a moment of profoundly unwelcome deja vu.
"You punched the wall with your right hand. Twice." Dom says quietly.
Against his will, in spite of the great physical discomfort, Arthur instantly recognizes the soft concern in Dom's voice. It's his own tone from the day after the worst night of Dom Cobb's life. Arthur doesn't want that tone in any way associated with his life. With anything happening in his life. There is now way he is where Dom was.
He squints in Dom's general direction again. A bemused smile flicks across Dom's face as he gets up and heads for the bedroom door. At least there is a benefit if Dom sees parallels. It means he won't linger. In the Mal aftermath, Dom had thrown Arthur out of his Paris apartment multiple times.
I'd tell you to call me if you needed anything, but apparently you don't need that encouragement. Don't be a stranger Arthur." Cobb lets himself out.
It takes Arthur either five minutes or one hour to get himself upright. There are four lavender pills on the nightstand beside a glass of water. He wonders if they are something Yusef is working on. He downs them all at once. Unfortunately, he can't sit and wait for them to take effect on either his headache or his damaged hand.
Levering himself up, Arthur soldiers out of the bedroom. He does what he should have done instead of getting wasted, drunk dialing Dom and punching holes into the walls of his home. Retrieving his cell from beneath the couch Eames insisted they buy at the Rose Bowl flea market, Arthur pushes number three on his speed dial. Eames' attorney answers on the fourth ring.
Re: Fill 1/? WIPchase65February 1 2011, 10:04:25 UTC
There will definitely be more. I intended to post weekly, but had to finish up fics for smallfandomfest. I hope to post this weekend. Thank you very much for commenting. I hope you enjoy what's to come.
Arthur can't breathe. He's not claustrophobic. Tight, small spaces have no effect on him, except. Except it's been three times a day, for seven days. Seven business days. Pre-trial motions, jury selection until finally, trial. After inception, elevators should have been a reminder of quick thinking, a job brilliantly done. Personal triumph. Instead, he felt homicidal. It didn't help that in the hot press of bodies there were three armed people. Two Los Angeles Sheriff's deputies and one LAPD detective. The only good thing about the press is that Eames is nudged right up next to him. He'd be close anyway, but under this circumstance it makes Arthur less uncomfortable. A calloused forefinger brushes across the back of his hand. It calms him marginally. He thinks that Eames' skill as a forger might have made him slightly psychic. The touch isn't much, but it temporarily eases Arthur's urge to take the situation into his own hands. Such ridiculously inefficient planning. What seems like hundreds of people all trying to go up at the same time, with only three elevators to convey them from the lobby of the Criminal Courts building to its upper floors. More galling because neither he nor Eames should be in this situation.
&&&
The knock on their door that morning hadn't been entirely unexpected. They'd been home for a few days. Dom had mentioned that he might bring the children around to visit. It was only as Arthur got closer to the front door that he noticed, through the picture window, one marked and two unmarked police cars parked in front of the house. Still, he'd thought they had the wrong craftsman until he opened the door to an LAPD Detective and a warrant for Eames' arrest. And only Eames. There was no warrant for the house. Not that it would be such an issue. The weapons Arthur kept at home were as secure as they were unregistered. A false wall space that wasn't detectable, unless you had the original blueprints for the house, kept them hidden. There was also a safe which was undetectable to the naked eye. They kept about two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash on hand for a rainy day.
“Arthur, how long does it take to brew up a pot for heaven's sake -,”
“Eames,” Arthur took a step, a dream share reflex, alerting a team member of impending danger. But the police officers in their house weren't projections, and their guns would provide something a little more lethal than a kick. One of the uniforms grabbed Arthur and shoved him against the wall.
“Sir, don't interfere,” the Officer growled as he pressed one hand against Arthur's shoulder, his other hand hovering over his unsnapped holster.
“Gentleman, I'm quite sure there's been a terrible misunderstanding,” Eames offered. The accompanying sheepish smile, pure guile. When Arthur had left him in bed to start a pot of coffee, Eames had been naked. Now he was wearing dark trousers and a navy t-shirt. Eames hadn't come down the stairs completely unaware.
“Arthur, have you done something?” He plays the cluelessness. Arthur relaxes beneath the Officer's hand. Waits for Eames' lead.
“We have a warrant for your arrest,” The Detective begins. “Please place your hands behind your back.” Eames complies. And Arthur listens intently as Eames is mirandized.
“Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?”
“Of course, ”Eames says smoothly. So, Arthur thinks, they're just going to play it out. It makes sense. When they find out Eames isn't a citizen, they'll likely want to deport him. Deportation would be a hassle, but that's something they can work around. As Eames is led out the front door, and the pressure on Arthur's shoulder lessens, Arthur asks, “Which division?”
“Downtown, Central Booking,” the Officer at his back responds. Later Arthur will think that it was the fact Eames was taken downtown instead of Northeast Division that kept him focused on ICE and deportation. He'll wonder for a long time whether or not he should have done something differently at the house to prevent all the things that came after.
Before tbc...hopefully with a post at the end of this week :-).
A/N: I know it's a prison au. I'm getting there. Ugh double post, forgot to sign in and close a bold tag.
Before
Arthur can't breathe. He's not claustrophobic. Tight, small spaces have no effect on him, except. Except it's been three times a day, for seven days. Seven business days. Pre-trial motions, jury selection until finally, trial. After inception, elevators should have been a reminder of quick thinking, a job brilliantly done. Personal triumph. Instead, he felt homicidal. It didn't help that in the hot press of bodies there were three armed people. Two Los Angeles Sheriff's deputies and one LAPD detective. The only good thing about the press is that Eames is nudged right up next to him. He'd be close anyway, but under this circumstance it makes Arthur less uncomfortable. A calloused forefinger brushes across the back of his hand. It calms him marginally. He thinks that Eames' skill as a forger might have made him slightly psychic. The touch isn't much, but it temporarily eases Arthur's urge to take the situation into his own hands. Such ridiculously inefficient planning. What seems like hundreds of people all trying to go up at the same time, with only three elevators to convey them from the lobby of the Criminal Courts building to its upper floors. More galling because neither he nor Eames should be in this situation.
&&&
The knock on their door that morning hadn't been entirely unexpected. They'd been home for a few days. Dom had mentioned that he might bring the children around to visit. It was only as Arthur got closer to the front door that he noticed, through the picture window, one marked and two unmarked police cars parked in front of the house. Still, he'd thought they had the wrong craftsman until he opened the door to an LAPD Detective and a warrant for Eames' arrest. And only Eames. There was no warrant for the house. Not that it would be such an issue. The weapons Arthur kept at home were as secure as they were unregistered. A false wall space that wasn't detectable, unless you had the original blueprints for the house, kept them hidden. There was also a safe which was undetectable to the naked eye. They kept about two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash on hand for a rainy day.
“Arthur, how long does it take to brew up a pot for heaven's sake -,”
“Eames,” Arthur took a step, a dream share reflex, alerting a team member of impending danger. But the police officers in their house weren't projections, and their guns would provide something a little more lethal than a kick. One of the uniforms grabbed Arthur and shoved him against the wall.
“Sir, don't interfere,” the Officer growled as he pressed one hand against Arthur's shoulder, his other hand hovering over his unsnapped holster.
“Gentleman, I'm quite sure there's been a terrible misunderstanding,” Eames offered. The accompanying sheepish smile, pure guile. When Arthur had left him in bed to start a pot of coffee, Eames had been naked. Now he was wearing dark trousers and a navy t-shirt. Eames hadn't come down the stairs completely unaware.
“Arthur, have you done something?” He plays the cluelessness. Arthur relaxes beneath the Officer's hand. Waits for Eames' lead.
“We have a warrant for your arrest,” The Detective begins. “Please place your hands behind your back.” Eames complies. And Arthur listens intently as Eames is mirandized.
“Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?”
“Of course, ”Eames says smoothly. So, Arthur thinks, they're just going to play it out. It makes sense. When they find out Eames isn't a citizen, they'll likely want to deport him. Deportation would be a hassle, but that's something they can work around. As Eames is led out the front door, and the pressure on Arthur's shoulder lessens, Arthur asks, “Which division?”
“Downtown, Central Booking,” the Officer at his back responds. Later Arthur will think that it was the fact Eames was taken downtown instead of Northeast Division that kept him focused on ICE and deportation. He'll wonder for a long time whether or not he should have done something differently at the house to prevent all the things that came after.
Before tbc...hopefully with a post at the end of this week :-).
Arthur wakes in excruciating pain. His head hurts so badly he can barely open his eyes. His right hand is on fire. The fire races up his arm when he attempts to flex. A small noise to the right of the bed catches his attention. His .45 is on the night table in the drawer, but just the thought of reaching for it causes pain to radiate from wrist to fingertips. He could try to make a move with his left hand, but any intruder worth his salt will take him down before he can make that move. The pain in his head is marginally less than that in his hand so he chooses to open his eyes instead.
Thankfully, the burgundy blackout curtains are shut tightly. He thinks they were open, but ... He's grateful for the low light in the room. Everything reads a little blurry and still there are the small sounds, fabric shifting to his right. With great effort, he manages to turn his head.
What he sees gives him a moment of profoundly unwelcome deja vu.
"You punched the wall with your right hand. Twice." Dom says quietly.
Against his will, in spite of the great physical discomfort, Arthur instantly recognizes the soft concern in Dom's voice. It's his own tone from the day after the worst night of Dom Cobb's life. Arthur doesn't want that tone in any way associated with his life. With anything happening in his life. There is now way he is where Dom was.
He squints in Dom's general direction again. A bemused smile flicks across Dom's face as he gets up and heads for the bedroom door. At least there is a benefit if Dom sees parallels. It means he won't linger. In the Mal aftermath, Dom had thrown Arthur out of his Paris apartment multiple times.
I'd tell you to call me if you needed anything, but apparently you don't need that encouragement. Don't be a stranger Arthur." Cobb lets himself out.
It takes Arthur either five minutes or one hour to get himself upright. There are four lavender pills on the nightstand beside a glass of water. He wonders if they are something Yusef is working on. He downs them all at once. Unfortunately, he can't sit and wait for them to take effect on either his headache or his damaged hand.
Levering himself up, Arthur soldiers out of the bedroom. He does what he should have done instead of getting wasted, drunk dialing Dom and punching holes into the walls of his home. Retrieving his cell from beneath the couch Eames insisted they buy at the Rose Bowl flea market, Arthur pushes number three on his speed dial. Eames' attorney answers on the fourth ring.
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Before
Arthur can't breathe. He's not claustrophobic. Tight, small spaces have no effect on him, except. Except it's been three times a day, for seven days. Seven business days. Pre-trial motions, jury selection until finally, trial. After inception, elevators should have been a reminder of quick thinking, a job brilliantly done. Personal triumph. Instead, he felt homicidal. It didn't help that in the hot press of bodies there were three armed people. Two Los Angeles Sheriff's deputies and one LAPD detective. The only good thing about the press is that Eames is nudged right up next to him. He'd be close anyway, but under this circumstance it makes Arthur less uncomfortable. A calloused forefinger brushes across the back of his hand. It calms him marginally. He thinks that Eames' skill as a forger might have made him slightly psychic. The touch isn't much, but it temporarily eases Arthur's urge to take the situation into his own hands. Such ridiculously inefficient planning. What seems like hundreds of people all trying to go up at the same time, with only three elevators to convey them from the lobby of the Criminal Courts building to its upper floors. More galling because neither he nor Eames should be in this situation.
&&&
The knock on their door that morning hadn't been entirely unexpected. They'd been home for a few days. Dom had mentioned that he might bring the children around to visit. It was only as Arthur got closer to the front door that he noticed, through the picture window, one marked and two unmarked police cars parked in front of the house. Still, he'd thought they had the wrong craftsman until he opened the door to an LAPD Detective and a warrant for Eames' arrest. And only Eames. There was no warrant for the house. Not that it would be such an issue. The weapons Arthur kept at home were as secure as they were unregistered. A false wall space that wasn't detectable, unless you had the original blueprints for the house, kept them hidden. There was also a safe which was undetectable to the naked eye. They kept about two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash on hand for a rainy day.
“Arthur, how long does it take to brew up a pot for heaven's sake -,”
“Eames,” Arthur took a step, a dream share reflex, alerting a team member of impending danger. But the police officers in their house weren't projections, and their guns would provide something a little more lethal than a kick. One of the uniforms grabbed Arthur and shoved him against the wall.
“Sir, don't interfere,” the Officer growled as he pressed one hand against Arthur's shoulder, his other hand hovering over his unsnapped holster.
“Gentleman, I'm quite sure there's been a terrible misunderstanding,” Eames offered. The accompanying sheepish smile, pure guile. When Arthur had left him in bed to start a pot of coffee, Eames had been naked. Now he was wearing dark trousers and a navy t-shirt. Eames hadn't come down the stairs completely unaware.
“Arthur, have you done something?” He plays the cluelessness. Arthur relaxes beneath the Officer's hand. Waits for Eames' lead.
“We have a warrant for your arrest,” The Detective begins. “Please place your hands behind your back.” Eames complies. And Arthur listens intently as Eames is mirandized.
“Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?”
“Of course, ”Eames says smoothly. So, Arthur thinks, they're just going to play it out. It makes sense. When they find out Eames isn't a citizen, they'll likely want to deport him. Deportation would be a hassle, but that's something they can work around. As Eames is led out the front door, and the pressure on Arthur's shoulder lessens, Arthur asks, “Which division?”
“Downtown, Central Booking,” the Officer at his back responds. Later Arthur will think that it was the fact Eames was taken downtown instead of Northeast Division that kept him focused on ICE and deportation. He'll wonder for a long time whether or not he should have done something differently at the house to prevent all the things that came after.
Before tbc...hopefully with a post at the end of this week :-).
Reply
Before
Arthur can't breathe. He's not claustrophobic. Tight, small spaces have no effect on him, except. Except it's been three times a day, for seven days. Seven business days. Pre-trial motions, jury selection until finally, trial. After inception, elevators should have been a reminder of quick thinking, a job brilliantly done. Personal triumph. Instead, he felt homicidal. It didn't help that in the hot press of bodies there were three armed people. Two Los Angeles Sheriff's deputies and one LAPD detective. The only good thing about the press is that Eames is nudged right up next to him. He'd be close anyway, but under this circumstance it makes Arthur less uncomfortable. A calloused forefinger brushes across the back of his hand. It calms him marginally. He thinks that Eames' skill as a forger might have made him slightly psychic. The touch isn't much, but it temporarily eases Arthur's urge to take the situation into his own hands. Such ridiculously inefficient planning. What seems like hundreds of people all trying to go up at the same time, with only three elevators to convey them from the lobby of the Criminal Courts building to its upper floors. More galling because neither he nor Eames should be in this situation.
&&&
The knock on their door that morning hadn't been entirely unexpected. They'd been home for a few days. Dom had mentioned that he might bring the children around to visit. It was only as Arthur got closer to the front door that he noticed, through the picture window, one marked and two unmarked police cars parked in front of the house. Still, he'd thought they had the wrong craftsman until he opened the door to an LAPD Detective and a warrant for Eames' arrest. And only Eames. There was no warrant for the house. Not that it would be such an issue. The weapons Arthur kept at home were as secure as they were unregistered. A false wall space that wasn't detectable, unless you had the original blueprints for the house, kept them hidden. There was also a safe which was undetectable to the naked eye. They kept about two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash on hand for a rainy day.
“Arthur, how long does it take to brew up a pot for heaven's sake -,”
“Eames,” Arthur took a step, a dream share reflex, alerting a team member of impending danger. But the police officers in their house weren't projections, and their guns would provide something a little more lethal than a kick. One of the uniforms grabbed Arthur and shoved him against the wall.
“Sir, don't interfere,” the Officer growled as he pressed one hand against Arthur's shoulder, his other hand hovering over his unsnapped holster.
“Gentleman, I'm quite sure there's been a terrible misunderstanding,” Eames offered. The accompanying sheepish smile, pure guile. When Arthur had left him in bed to start a pot of coffee, Eames had been naked. Now he was wearing dark trousers and a navy t-shirt. Eames hadn't come down the stairs completely unaware.
“Arthur, have you done something?” He plays the cluelessness. Arthur relaxes beneath the Officer's hand. Waits for Eames' lead.
“We have a warrant for your arrest,” The Detective begins. “Please place your hands behind your back.” Eames complies. And Arthur listens intently as Eames is mirandized.
“Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?”
“Of course, ”Eames says smoothly. So, Arthur thinks, they're just going to play it out. It makes sense. When they find out Eames isn't a citizen, they'll likely want to deport him. Deportation would be a hassle, but that's something they can work around. As Eames is led out the front door, and the pressure on Arthur's shoulder lessens, Arthur asks, “Which division?”
“Downtown, Central Booking,” the Officer at his back responds. Later Arthur will think that it was the fact Eames was taken downtown instead of Northeast Division that kept him focused on ICE and deportation. He'll wonder for a long time whether or not he should have done something differently at the house to prevent all the things that came after.
Before tbc...hopefully with a post at the end of this week :-).
Reply
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