(no subject)
Fandom; Inception
Title; From a Half Remembered Dream
Characters; Robert Fischer, Dom Cobb, Ariadne, Arthur, Eames, Others
Pairings; Cobb/Robert
Rating; R (violence)
Word count; 7443
Chapter; Completed, one-shot.
NOTES; Written for inception kink meme. Prompt - So, after inception, Cobb can't just let Robert run off to go crazy, 'cause that'd be irresponsible. So, he has the team watching (stalking) him.
THEN ONE DAY something terrible happens to Robert! Like, say, he's kidnapped off the streets. Or.... Or something. And of course, team-cobb is aware of this immediately, even where he's been taken, because they were stalking him.
....So they can't just -leave- it alone. CUE RESCUE OF AWESOME PLZ.
When they got the call, they had all already begun to scatter, each one beginning the process of disappearing into the underground once again and waiting for the next job.
Each one was woken up in a cheap room in some nameless hotel, and each one was lucky that they picked the phone up at all in the ungodly hour of morning, ripped from a deep, dreamless sleep unwillingly (except for Eames, who had just come back from a night of a little too much fun.)
Each one never expected to hear Cobb's voice on the other end of the line. "It's not even close to being over yet," was the greeting he gave them, followed by brief instructions on when and where they were meeting.
Each one stared at their phone, confused, before muttering "God dammit" and wrenching themselves out of their beds.
---
"Really, again, a warehouse, Cobb? Surely we could afford an upgrade," Eames complained, scrunching his face in an overly exaggerated display of disapproval.
"I like warehouses," Cobb dismissed with a shrug. "I'm sure you'll find a way to survive the hardship."
"You should be more considerate of Eames, Dom," Arthur said in a tone dripping with mock concern, "he really is delicate, after all." He laughed, leaning his chair back, before Eames gave him a disgusted look and kicked the back leg out, sending Arthur slamming into the floor. "Can't think of anything new?" Arthur grumbled. Eames was about to shoot back his own insult before Cobb silenced the both of them with a look that didn't need words to imply Shut the hell up.
Ariadne was the one to steer their attention back to work. "I still don't get why we're here," she remarked.
"Inception is a tricky thing. We planted the idea, sure, but we can't be one hundred percent sure that it stuck," Cobb explained. "Just ask Eames."
"I get that," Ariadne retorted quickly, "but what I don't get is why it has to be us. This isn't what we do. We deal with dreams - this isn't our area of expertise. Why are we doing recon?"
"Because Saito can trust us," Eames supplied.
"Exactly. What we did - it's huge. Inception isn't even supposed to be possible - can you imagine what would happen if anyone found out we used it to break up one of the largest energy conglomerates?"
"The consequences," Eames added in a hushed, dramatic voice, "would never be the same." He smiled to himself, but stopped when he noticed Arthur's glare.
"Thank you, Eames," Cobb said, somewhat exasperated.
"It's a shame, really," Eames continued, "that we did our job so well we'll never even get credit for it."
"That is, if we did it right and we make sure we did it right," Arthur added.
"So," Ariadne said, "Saito's hired us so he can keep the number people involved down, right? Less chance of word of what we did getting out that way."
"Basically," Cobb said with a nod. "So - down to business. Ariadne," here, Cobb handed her a folder, "you're going to be an intern at Fischer's company. We've gotten you a pretty nice position, so you should be able to keep close tabs on Fischer while he's at work."
Cobb turned to Arthur. "You'll be doing what you do best. Keep tabs on Fischer and his company, and make sure that the dismemberment of his father's empire goes smoothly." Arthur nodded his consent.
"And me?" Eames asked.
"I want you tailing Fischer. Don't let him out of your sight. I want us updated on every move he makes until we're in the clear. Think you've got it?"
"Goody," Eames muttered sarcastically. "Baby-sitting. My favorite."
"I don't want to hear any complaining," Cobb said sternly. "We are so close to pulling off the impossible. Don't let us fall short because of a shoddy follow-up."
"What about you?" Ariadne asked, one eyebrow raised. "What's your part in all this? You have to be doing something."
Cobb's face was serious. "Tying up any lose ends Saito might have left," he said, and everyone knew what he meant. "And making sure the rumor mill stays absolutely silent."
---
"Ah, yes, thank you," Eames exclaimed as Arthur climbed back into his car with a bag of cheap take-out. "Arthur, darling, I simply don't know how I would survive without you," he exclaimed his gratitude, greedily ripping off the wrappings on a ridiculously sized burger.
It was a dreary day - similar to the day in Yusuf's dream, dark and pouring rain with a chill that crept into your bones. Their job had transplanted them from L.A. to New York, chasing the young Fischer heir from meeting to meeting. Chaos descended as Fischer began the process of dissolving his father's empire. The entire team was on edge: in a few short days, Fischer would sign the papers that would finalize everything, no turning back. They would finally have succeeded: all the effort, all the hell they had gone through to make the inception happen would be realized, and they would be done.
They were all particularly anxious to resume their own lives outside of Fischer and to leave him and his newly destroyed inheritance behind. The sooner that Fischer was just a relic of their past, a memory to be forgotten and then remembered one late night after several drinks, the better. As the effects of their inception became more and more evident, each one of the team couldn't stave off the guilt steadily swallowing their conscience. Ariadne, the only one to physically interact with Fischer, was the most vocal in her guilt, questioning every bad day, every bad habit that Fischer started picking up and attributing it to their intrusion of the man's subconscious.
To be fair, Arthur and Eames had a nagging feeling she was right.
Arthur had done a thorough check (despite one crucial oversight) of Fischer's background, and he knew that something had changed. There had never been so many nights of disappearing into the city's night life, never been so many incidences where he drank so much it was a blessing he remembered his own name - to the point where one particular night Eames and Arthur had seriously debated interfering simply to make sure he didn't drop dead of alcohol poisoning in a gutter somewhere.
Likewise, there had never been any mention of Fischer locking himself away from society, retreating into his room or his hotel suite for days, refusing all human interaction. As far as Arthur and Eames had been able to discern, Fischer simply sat, alone, in silence. During these bouts of seclusion, he never made any calls, never took any visitors, never even watched any damn TV. Ariadne always figured he was taking time to catch up on reading, and Eames was certain that was a ridiculous suggestion and that Fischer had to be jacking off, but Arthur had a suspicion that he really wasn't doing anything. He was just sitting, alone and lost and unable to even deal with his own thoughts anymore.
The truth of it was - the truth that none of them ever dared speak - was that in their close surveillance of Fischer, they had all begun to truly care about him just in time to watch him fall apart. And it was their fault.
"When was the last time we heard from Cobb?" Arthur asked, breaking an awkward silence as he ripped open a package of dressing.
"First," Eames said, staring incredulously at the meal perched in Arthur's lap, "we need to talk about the fact you are eating a bloody salad."
"So?" Arthur asked indignantly. "I like salads. There's nothing wrong with that."
"Only you," Eames mumbled through a mouth full of french fries, "would get take out and order a salad. I should have expected no less from a man with your fashion sense."
Arthur began to protest, but was interrupted by the buzz of Eames's cellphone. "Ah! I wonder who it could be?" he asked, the sarcasm heavy. "Surely, it couldn't be Cobb." Answering the phone, he interrupted the voice on the other end with an enthusiastic, "Cobb! I have simply not heard from you in ages. Arthur and I were beginning to worry about you, it being all of - oh dear, nearly an hour since we last spoke. This must be a record."
"The report, Eames," Cobb asked with little patience for Eames's mockery.
"No movement. Still inside, tucked away safe and sound, exactly where's he's been for the last five hours. When he does move, I assure you, you will be the first to know."
The other line went dead, and Eames shook his head. "So rude these days," he muttered under his breath.
"Nearly an hour very literally is a record, though," Arthur commented. Eames nodded silently, turning again towards the building across the street, squinting to see through the rain. "It's a bit of a problem."
Cobb called obsessively for updates, badgering the entire team incessantly - Eames in particular, and especially after Arthur decided to tag along with him. On a good day, they could expect a demand for an update around every half hour. On a bad day, Cobb was known to call every ten minutes, his voice holding an edge that clearly reflected his nervousness.
"I'm beginning to wonder about him," Eames said. "I think his entire existence has begun to revolve around our dear Fischer."
"I can understand his concern, though," Arthur said softly. "Considering what happened to Mal...." He trailed off, stabbing at his salad.
Eames nodded his agreement. Ariadne had spilled one night, the three of them meeting for drinks, hidden on the other side of the bar from a very, very intoxicated Fischer. Eames and Arthur were throwing out their wild theories as to why Cobb had become fixated on their mark and Ariadne, pliant after a few of her own drinks, had let her own suspicions slip. It had been one hell of a buzz kill, but suddenly Eames and Arthur understood their leader a little better, and his obsession seemed a little less insane. But only slightly.
The two finished their food in a comfortable silence, occasionally bickering over the radio station. When Eames's cellphone rang again - a mere five minutes after the last time they heard from him - Eames answered it whining petulantly, "Arthur keeps switching the radio to the classical station, make him stop!"
"Cut it out," Cobb barked, and Eames instantly became serious, quickly registering the desperate edge in Cobb's voice. "I want an update."
"Look, he's still in there. No movement. I told you, Cobb, we will let you know when he moves. Right away. You can relax a little," Eames told him.
"Actually, no, I can't relax," Cobb snapped back, but didn't bother to provide an explanation. Eames didn't pry, however, as he was distracted from the conversation by Arthur hitting him in the arm.
"Eames," he said in a hushed, urgent tone, "look. Fischer just left the building. But..." he didn't finish his sentence. He didn't have to - as Eames looked out, he spotted exactly what Arthur saw.
"Shit," he muttered.
"What is it? Eames? Eames!" Cobb yelled into the receiver, but Eames didn't immediately respond, too focused on watching Fischer, praying that there was nothing really amiss.
Fischer stood on the curb, briefcase held over his head to shield himself from the rain, looking for his ride. That, alone, was normal. What Eames and Arthur were paying close attention to was the dark unmarked van that had just pulled in only a few cars down from where Fischer was standing.
Eames held his breath, hoping that the concern curling deep in his stomach was nothing, when two men got out of the car, walking quickly towards Fischer. Judging from their steady gaze locked on the young man and their forceful gates - Eames knew he had every reason to be concerned. "I think we have a situation," was the last thing he told Cobb before throwing the cellphone on his seat, holding onto the gun he was very, very thankful to have continued to carry, and ran through the rain towards Fischer. Arthur was at his side instantly, shouting at the two men as the advanced on Fischer.
"Hey! You two!" he shouted, but the two men didn't react - they were either too focused on their mission or couldn't hear him over the pouring rain.
Fischer started at Arthur's yelling, whipping his head to the side to search for the men Arthur was yelling at. One of them grabbed him from behind, covering his mouth with something - a sedative - and Fischer's body went limp within his arms. Eames pulled out his gun, but with Fischer in the attacker's grasp he didn't have a clear shot, and the other man covered him with a weapon of his own.
"Shittttt, shit, shit, shit, shit," Eames muttered under his breath. "This is not good, this is not bloody good!"
By the time the two made it across the street to where Fischer had been standing, the man who had sedated Fischer had dragged him back into the van, and the other one was joining him. "Get the van!" Arthur shouted at Eames, and Eames nodded, aiming for the vehicle.
It pealed out of its parking spot quickly, narrowly avoiding an oncoming car. "Where the fuck," Arthur growled, "is all the New York traffic?" The street was conspicuously clear of heavy traffic, and the van was able to narrowly escape Eames's fire. "Come on, we can't lose him!" Arthur shouted to Eames as both ran back to the car.
As soon as they were in the car and the engine roared to life, the street was clogged with cars, the sounds of honking nearly overpowering the pounding of rain. "Where the hell did this come from?" Eames cried, exasperated, punching the dashboard.
"Cobb is going to have our heads," was the only thing Arthur could think of to say as the pair sat, helpless, as the van carrying Robert Fischer Jr. faded completely from sight.
---
Cobb paced furiously in the small hotel room, the floor littered with so many papers it was a miracle that the carpet could be seen at all. His arms were crossed tightly against his chest, and he had to focus to keep his breathing in check. To say that he was mad was such an understatement, words could not begin to describe it.
Cobb was startled out of his rage-filled reverie by a tentative knocking on his door. Quickly checking to see who was at the door, Cobb nearly ripped the lock open to let them in. "You two," he growled through clenched teeth. "You two will be so incredibly lucky if I don't decide to kill you both when this is all over."
"Look, Cobb - " Eames began to say, but was cut off.
"What the hell happened there! How could you possibly have let that happen! You watched Robert get kidnapped. I can't even -" Cobb stopped and took a deep breath, before exhaling slowly. "And then, to make this even better, you lost the damn van! A van, for christ's sake, a giant fucking unmarked van."
"They were professionals, Dom," Arthur said cooly, trying to calm Cobb down. "They knew what they were doing, and I'm fairly sure they managed to - I don't know, manipulate traffic somehow."
"We did what we could, but there's only the two of us, Cobb," Eames explained. "Two men who have had almost no sleep because we've been following Fischer around the clock for weeks."
"Watching him so that something like this wouldn't happen!" Cobb yelled. Arthur reflexively took a step back, Cobb's rage emanating so strongly from his body, so deeply etched in every movement and every word, Arthur swore it was a palpable presence in the room. As Cobb continued to pace, muttering angrily under his breath and stopping, every so often, to throw something off his bed or the small desk, Arthur and Eames simply stood back. They needed to let Cobb vent his frustration - nothing productive was going to happen until the other man managed to calm down.
So they waited, watching Cobb with baited breath before, finally, he came to a halt, back turned to the two of them as he stared out the window. "We need to go get him," he said.
"And how are we going to do that? We don't have any idea where he is," Eames reminded Cobb.
"I think I know where he is," Cobb said, turning around and rummaging through a pile of papers strewn across his bed.
"How the hell do you know that?" Arthur asked.
"Because I know who kidnapped him," Cobb snapped. "What the hell did you think I was doing today? I was investigating some - rumors. Talk of a crew getting hired for a big job - a kidnapping. With enough digging," Cobb remarked, more focused on the organizing the papers in his hands than his words, "I was able to put two and two together. Had a feeling it was about Robert."
"So you knew this was coming and didn't tell us?" Arthur snapped. "I know you have some sharing issues, but seriously, Dom, this is the kind of stuff you should tell us about."
"This is also," Cobb said, turning of Arthur angrily, "exactly the the type of thing you should be doing! This is the assignment I gave you, Arthur. Jesus Christ - " he stopped, too exasperated to continue, before finally resuming, "I don't know what the hell is your problem, Arthur, this is the second fucking time you've slipped on this case - remind me why I keep you on the team again?" Cobb shouted at Arthur.
Arthur cringed mentally, but didn't let his face reflect it. Cobb was out of control - this had gotten personal, and his anger was clearly above and beyond what was necessary given the situation.
Eames stepped up to defend Arthur, telling Cobb, "He's been helping me, you know, keep tabs on this kid twenty four-seven, which is still a hell of a job for only two guys. Cobb, I'm telling you," Eames said, his voice strict, "you need to relax."
Cobb put his head in his hands, pulling at his hair, before exhaling deeply. "You're right. I'm sorry. We need to work together on this, keep our cool. I just - " he stopped, and left whatever he was about to say remain unspoken.
"So, what do we know about this crew?" Arthur asked.
"They're good. All professionals, most of them ex-military. They have a couple computer guys, too, so the traffic thing actually makes sense. It's definitely them," Cobb said. "They've done this sort of thing many times before... and I," Cobb said, with a grin on his face, "found out their favorite hiding place."
"Good going, Cobb," Eames said, impressed.
"Then what the hell are we waiting for?" Arthur asked "Let's go get Fischer the hell out of there."
Cobb stared down at the piece of paper in his hand, glaring at the blurry photographs of Fischer's kidnappers. "Surprise," he told them, memorizing the address underneath their pictures, before heading out the door behind Arthur and Eames.
---
Fischer came back to reality slowly, his mind protesting the whole way. Slowly opening his eyes, Fischer panicked as nothing but darkness greeted him. The ground beneath him was hard and cold - probably concrete, his mind supplied. As he struggled to sit up, he noticed with alarm his hands were tied together in front of him. Fuck, he thought to himself, as the memory of what happened immediately before came rushing back to him. I've been kidnapped.
It wasn't long until he realized the reason for his blindness was a bag over his head, and as he inventoried the entire situation - the concrete beneath him and the cold, hard wall behind his back, the restraints on his wrists chaffing against his skin, the bag over his head so he was trapped in nothing but darkness - he had a major, major feeling of déjà vu. But that was impossible.
Fischer leaned back, allowing himself to focus on whatever sounds managed to reach his ears. At first, all he could hear was the dampened sound of rain hitting the side of a building, but if he really strained, he swore he could hear the dull thud of footsteps and a few low, whispered words.
But then again, it could have just been his imagination. Between the rain and the frantic thudding of his own heart, Fischer couldn't hear anything clearly. He breathed heavily, reflexively clenching his hands and relaxing them, trying to stay cool. He was insured against kidnapping, so if the men were looking for money, his safety would be assured there. He had this nagging feeling, however, this wasn't just a kidnapping for ransom. Even then, he thought, trying to contain his rising panic, even then they must need him for something. Need him alive.
He was going to be okay. He was going to get out of this alive.
Sitting there alone in the dark, bound and frightened with only his own thoughts for company, Fischer couldn't control his mind from imagining every way these people might hurt him - every scenario in which he might end up dying a slow, painful death at their hands.
No, no, stop, he scolded. That's not happening.
For some reason, he kept returning to one particular scenario - kept seeing rough hands throwing him into the back of a van and driving off a pier, sending the van crashing into the water - but no, no, he had to stop thinking of this.
Fischer tried to turn his thoughts away from his own death, and if he couldn't escape completely, couldn't take himself away from this place, he should at least think of something practical - like who the hell these people could be. Anonymous kidnappers who knew his name and thought they could get a hefty ransom was always a possibility, but not the most likely. It was more likely someone who stood to lose a fortune when he dissolved his father's empire - someone who needed to make sure that didn't happen.
Somewhere from the darkest recesses of his mind, a name floated to the surface, unbidden and terrifying to Fischer. Uncle Peter. But it couldn't be him, Fischer told himself. His uncle Peter would never do this to him - he was like family to Fischer. He was family.
But he has a lot to lose, Fischer's mind told him. He's invested his life into this company. You're destroying everything he's worked for for so long. He pushed those thoughts away bitterly. They were impossible. As Fischer instead ran through a list of his father's most powerful stockholders, that dark, nagging suspicion remained, hidden in the back of his mind, never quite leaving his conscious thought.
Fischer didn't have much more time to think, because suddenly he heard the sound of a door slamming open, and loud, heavy footsteps approached him. He felt like his heart was going to explode if it didn't slow down, and his breathing became quick and shallow. He couldn't let them see it.
The bag over his head was ripped violently off, and Fischer blinked rapidly, adjusting his eyes to light again. Looking around, it became clear he was in a basement of some sort. Three men stood in front of him: one man, older with a nasty scar on his forehead, stood directly in front of Fischer while two extremely large men kept behind him, shooting Fischer menacing grins when he looked their way.
"Good day, Mr. Fischer," the man said, his voice low and serious.
"Look," Fischer began talking, making his voice sound as aloof as possible, "I'm insured for kidnapping for ten million dollars. This should - " he paused, suddenly, again feeling a sense of déjà vu slam against him, screaming at him that his had all happened before. But where? Fischer asked himself. It was probably just his nerves.
"We have no interest in your insurance policy, I assure you, Mr. Fischer," the man said. "All we want is your signature."
Fischer looked at him, confused. What did they want him to sign? What could possibly be that important that they needed to kidnap him?
The man nodded to one of the hulks behind him, and he came forward with a small packet of paper, throwing it in Fischer's direction. "You can read it if you like," the older man said, "but it makes no difference what it says. You are not leaving here without your signature on that paper."
Fischer picked it up, awkwardly fumbling with the papers with his hands tied together. It only took a cursory scan of the papers to figure out what this was about. "You can't be serious," he gasped.
"Oh, we're quite serious. See, your recent business plans have been... quite unsettling to a lot of very, very powerful people. People who have put a lot of money in your father's company." Fischer wanted to laugh. He didn't need this man to figure that one out. That had basically been his life for the past few weeks. "Since all efforts to sway you to the side of reason seem to have failed... they turned to me, for what I believe to be a rather elegant solution to their problem."
"You're going to have me declared mentally incompetent," Fischer filled in.
"Precisely. A psychiatrist who is a dear friend of ours, and an even dearer friend of our money," the man said with a smirk, "already has a nice, lovingly written diagnosis written up which will be more than enough to prove your incompetence. All we need is your signature, stating that you submitted yourself to the evaluation. You will get to have a lovely and extremely extended vacation at his facilities, while..."
"Uncle Peter will take over power of attorney," Fischer gasped. Oh god. "I was right. He set you up to this, didn't he?" Fischer asked, tears stinging in his eyes as he realized the betrayal.
The man laughed. "So trusting, aren't you, Robert Fischer? No, no..." he said, "your good friend Browning was not the man who hired us, I will tell you that. But we feel assured that he will take much more intelligent steps in handling your father's estate."
Fischer let himself collapse against the wall behind him, processing the entire situation. "This will destroy me," he said. "You'll keep me locked away forever, won't you? I'm never going to see the light of day again if I sign those papers."
"I'm sure," the man mocked, "that you will be allowed outside at our dear friend's facilities. With surveillance, of course, but I hear the place is very, very nice."
Fischer didn't respond, choosing to simply glare at his captors. "I'm not signing those papers," he said eventually. "You can't kill me, you need me," he challenged them. "And people will begin to look for me. They'll find us. I just have to stay alive long enough, which shouldn't be a problem."
It wasn't the older man who laughed this time, but the two younger men behind him. "Oh, dear, naive Robert..." he said with amusement. "I can assure you, we are quite safely tucked away. It could take weeks before you're found." Fischer tried to remain calm, tried to stare him down - it was a bluff, it had to be - but he could feel the color drain from his face. "There are much, much worse fates than death, Robert. You're about to find out." He turned towards one of the younger men, murmuring, "Just soften him up a little. We have plenty of time," before calmly walking out of the room, letting the door swing shut behind him.
As the first hit connected with Fischer, sending his head slamming back into the hard, unforgiving wall behind him, he realized he didn't want to know what these men considered rough if this was just 'softening up.'
---
Fischer curled in on himself, burying his bruised face into his knees. I can't do this, he realized. If they come back again... I can't do it. I can't do it again. His everything hurt. His entire body was by now, Fischer assumed, a rather attractive hue of purple and black. And, judging by the sharp pain in his chest, he also probably had a cracked rip. Choking back a strangled cry, breathing deeply in an attempt to block out the pain, Fischer stared forward. A pen and a paper were his only company, laying before him on the floor. Teasing him.
It would be so easy to sign it. Just one little action, and he couldn't be hurt again. Stop it, he yelled at himself suddenly. You can't sign it. You can't. You'd be throwing your entire life away. But as the sharp pain in his rib flared up again, he started to doubt himself again. Nonononono, he scolded himself again. Focus. Focus on what will happen if you sign it.
Unable to - or, more precisely, unwilling to focus on his rather bleak future, no matter the outcome of the ordeal, Fischer sank back into his own private fantasy. One constructed as the two men kicked the ever loving shit out of him that he clung to, kept imagining over and over again in his head, because if he stopped thinking of that and let himself think of what had happened -
the bag is back over his head, so he can't see where the next assault is coming from - a kick in his side, a man heaving him up again and punching him in the jaw, slamming him to the ground - he can't predict the next one, can't protect his body with whatever feeble attempts he might be able to muster up and sometimes, they pause, allowing him to simply sit in the silence and collect his breath, heaving and gasping against the pain, and he relaxes again because he thinks they're done, it's done, they'll leave now before out of nowhere there's a massive blow in his back or his stomach or his head and it begins all over again, again and again and without and mercy and he wants to cry but there isn't even enough time between assaults to cry -
he never would have made it out.
Fischer imagined a man - a specific man, and he didn't know where his mind came up with him because he'd never even met him before, seen anyone like him - but he could see this man clearly in his mind's eye. His name was Mr. Charles, and if Fischer wasn't in his own private hell at the moment he would have been ashamed that his mind couldn't come up with a better name for his mysterious protector. In any event, in this fantasy, Mr. Charles would always burst through the door, easily and quickly shooting down Fischer's attackers before taking him into his arms, brushing his damp hair out of his face, his lips brushing his forehead as he whispered, "I'm here to protect you, Robert. I'm here to protect you."
Every now and again Fischer would realize how ridiculous this scenario was, and yell at himself, ashamed that this was what he was using to cope. It worked, however, so Fischer soon became less and less objectionable to it, and more and more willing to let his mind wander and imagine it again and again.
Without warning, Fisher was ripped from his own imaginings by the other man bursting through the door again. "Having fun, Robert? I hope you and my friends here played together nicely." The three shared a small laugh, but Fischer simply stared at the floor, not watching their faces. "If for any reason you're not enjoying your stay here - though I do hope you are - you can always just..." the man's voice dropped, almost to a whisper, as he crouched down on the floor in front of Fischer, "sign right... here." He pushed the paper and pen towards Fischer.
Fischer gulped. He knew what was going to happen if he didn't sign it. But....
He couldn't throw his life away. Not yet. Not over a few bruises and a broken rib. When it came down to it, he knew he had more than that. Fischer looked up at his captor, who had begun to lean in towards him, and smiled. "Don't worry. I'm finding my stay absolutely charming," he spat out. "Your friends' hospitality is unmatched."
"Fine then," the man said, picking up the papers and pen as he stood back up. "Have it your way. I have no objections to letting the boys here go at you again." He loomed over Fischer now, who had to stare upwards to look at him. "It's good anger management." With that said, he told the two younger men, "Harder this time, but nothing too serious." They nodded, throwing the bag back over Fischer's head and his world turned to nothing but darkness once again.
He heard the door click shut as the other man left the room. He heard the two men steps towards him, and he instinctually curled his body tighter into a ball as he prepared for their blows.
Then he heard the click of a gun, shortly followed by a bang that pierced the quiet room so sharply his ears rang.
He also heard screaming as his mind registered the pain in his leg, which was quickly taking over his entire consciousness, and it hurt, holy fuck it hurt like nothing else -
The scream was coming from his own throat. "Fuck," he gasped, trying desperately to quiet the noises he was making, not wanting to give his assailants the satisfaction of knowing just how much pain they were putting him through. His chest heaving, slowly, and gritting his teeth, he was able to make himself quiet. This didn't last for long, however, as the pain flared up even worse as one of the men sent his foot crashing into Fischer's injured leg, and this time the pain was so bad he didn't even bother trying to stop screaming. He just let it come as if he could expel the pain through his cries, as if it would somehow make it better, because his mind couldn't process anything else besides the ungodly pain enveloping his leg.
I'm going to die here, Fischer thought when his mind was finally able to work again, jesus christ, they're going to go too far and they're going to kill me and I'm going to die here.
Another shot rang out, and Fischer cringed instantly, expecting to feel another wound - but it didn't come. "What the hell?" one of the captors said, and it was the first words Fischer had heard anyone except their leader speak.
Two more shots rang out, and Fischer could feel the nervousness of the two men rising. "The fuck is going on out there..." the one man growled.
"What the hell do you think is going on! Someone goddamn found us and they're attacking, you fucking moron," The first one snapped. "Stay here. Don't fucking let them get to him, alright? I'm going to go see what's going on." Fischer heard him leave the room, before the remaining man hoisted him up off the ground.
A strangled cry bubbled out of his throat as his leg protested, screaming at the movement, and he felt the the pressure of the barrel of a gun against the back of his head. "Don't think this means you're getting out of here," the man growled in his ear. "If we're taken down, you're going down with us."
Fischer heard voices erupt outside the door. "Move aside, darling," came one muted voice, not far beyond the door, "and maybe I won't kill you."
"Like hell I will -" said another voice, which Fischer identified as the other man who had helped 'soften him up.' Two shots rang out, and Fischer heard the thump of a body falling to the ground.
"Christ, Eames, that was risky," another voice spat out. "You could have gotten yourself killed there."
"But I didn't," the voice that Fischer assumed was Eames said.
"This isn't a goddamn dream, Eames, there are consequences to getting shot out here - " the man was interrupted.
"Stop bickering for once," another voice snapped - a voice that Fischer recognized instantly. It can't be, his mind raced. But it was. He knew that voice, and it was like every fiber in his body was wired to be able to recognize that one voice. It was Mr. Charles.
As the door slammed open, his assailant's grip around him tightened. Fischer wished more than ever that he didn't have that goddamn bag over his head, so he could see who his rescuers were - so he could see the man with Mr. Charles's voice, so he could see if it was, by some cosmic accident, actually him.
"Let him go," Mr. Charles commanded.
"Like hell I'm letting him go," said Fischer's remaining captor. "You're going to kill me either way - might as well take this fucker with me."
"Let him go and we won't," the still unidentified voice said. "We'll get you out of here, ok? Give you money and a plane ticket, and you can get as far away from here as you want and we'll never bother you again," he assured.
Fischer's heart was pounding at speeds that shouldn't be humanly possible, and pressed against his captor's chest, he could tell his was, too. He shuffled a bit, and in his silence Fischer hoped he was considering the offer. "You think I'm going to fall for that?" he said finally. "You think I would actually be dumb enough to trust you?" The barrel of the gun was pressed harder against Fischer's skull, and a small whimper inadvertently tore itself out of Fischer's throat.
"You goddamn better!" Mr. Charles shouted, and the British voice - Eames, Fischer remembered - spoke quietly, "Cobb, stay calm."
"No, no, I'm not that dumb. But you're right... I am getting out of here. I am getting out of here alive," Fischer's assailant said, and it was clear by the slight rise in his voice that he was starting to panic. Keeping his gun pressed firmly against Fischer, he moved forward, hitting Fischer's leg and causing him to cry out.
"Cobb..." Fischer heard Eames mutter again, obviously trying to keep him calm.
"Put your guns down," the captor barked. "And keep your hands where I can see them. Now!" Slowly, the clattering of guns against the ground sounded out. "Good," the captor muttered, "good. Now, I'm going to walk out of here with Fischer, alright? You're going to stay where I can see you, and I'm going to walk out of here. I'm going to get into a car, and I'm going to drive away, and if you're really, really lucky," the man ground out, "Fischer here will turn up alive somewhere. Do you understand?" Fischer didn't hear a response, but as the man slowly began walking forward again, he assumed they had given their consent. No, no, no, he screamed in his mind, don't let him take me, please, save me, please, protect me.
It seemed like hours, with the man slowly pressing forward, the pressure of the gun against Fischer's head periodically increasing. "Don't you try anything, don't you dare try a goddamn thing," the man muttered.
Suddenly - out of nowhere - another shot rang out, and the man holding onto Fischer suddenly let go, falling on top of him and crushing him into the ground. Fischer let out a strangled sob as the pain in his leg burned, the other man pinning it to the floor.
"Ariadne!" Eames exclaimed, clearly impressed. "I didn't know you could shoot like that!"
A female voice spoke, one that Fischer hadn't heard before. "Neither did I," she admitted.
The other three began to speak excitedly, but Fischer stopped paying attention, stopped paying attention to anything else besides the pain in his leg. The weight of the man's body was pushed off of him, and the bag was lifted off of his head. As Fischer stared up at his rescuer, he felt his breath catch in this throat. Jesus christ.
It was Mr. Charles. He pulled Fischer up, into his arms, burying his face into his hair and murmuring, "You're safe now, Robert, you're safe, jesus christ, what did they do to you, I'm so sorry, but you're safe, you're safe now, understand?"
Fischer simply smiled lazily, the best he could against the growing pain in his leg, whispering, "I know," before everything faded to black.
---
When Fischer woke the next time, he was on a soft bed, his hands were free and his vision was unobstructed. He blinked, clearing his sight, and looked around. It looked like he was in a hotel room. Glancing to the side, he saw Mr. Charles slumped over in a chair next to his bed. He was asleep. Fischer didn't want to wake him, not really, but the pain in his leg also awoke, and his protests jolted the sleeping man awake.
"Shhh," he hushed Fischer, "stay still. I'll help you." He was fiddling with an IV stand. Looking back at Fischer, Cobb offered a small smile and told him, "You should be feeling much better very soon."
Fischer's eyelids fluttered as the rush of painkillers entered his bloodstream. "Why am I not in a hospital?" he asked, glancing at his surroundings another time.
"It's not safe there," Cobb said softly. "The people who had you kidnapped... well. Let's just say that it wouldn't be out of the question for them to get a hold of you in a hospital. You're safer here."
"With you?" Fischer asked. Cobb felt his insides tighten at this, guilt gnawing away at him.
"Yeah, with me," Cobb agreed. He didn't know what else to say to that. Staring at Fischer's badly bruised face, Cobb added, quietly, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry this happened."
"You saved me," Fischer told him, confident. "You have no reason to be sorry. I, on the other hand, only have reason to be grateful." Cobb wanted to laugh, wanted to laugh at the irony, at the overwhelming guilt Fischer's comment inspired in him, because all of this was his fault, his fault, and here Fischer was thanking him.
It was all too much.
"I - " Fischer started, but stopped, seeming to consider deeply what he wanted to say. "I knew you would come. I don't know how, but I knew." His words were like a punch in the face to Cobb. "It kept me going, you know, when..." he trailed off. "I just wanted to thank you for that, too."
"I didn't have anything to do with that, either," Cobb said, the guilt now almost too much for him to handle. "You shouldn't thank me for that."
"But you did," Fischer insisted. "It had everything to do with you," he asserted, struggling to sit up so he could look Cobb straight in the eye. Cobb placed a hand against his chest, gentle but firm, not allowing Fischer to strain himself.
"I thought I told you to stay still," he remarked.
"I didn't think you meant forever," Fischer returned. He stared at Cobb, their faces closer than what was comfortable. Fischer's lips, soft and full, were ever-so-slightly parted, and he stared at Cobb with those piercing blue eyes so intently. Cobb wasn't a fool - he knew what was going on. He knew that Fischer was offering him something, and he knew exactly what it was.
Cobb wanted desperately to lean in and claim it - take everything that Fischer was willing to give - but he couldn't, because he had no right to take anything from this man broken by Cobb himself.
But it was oh, so very tempting. Cobb leaned back, suddenly, distancing himself safely from Fischer. Hurt and humiliation flashed in Fischer's clear blue eyes, and it made Cobb ache to see that look. Staring at Fischer, who broke eye contact and chose to gaze at the wall, dejected, Cobb realized he wanted to help him. Wanted to erase all the hurt, all the pain he was feeling, and to never, ever let that hurt flash through his eyes again.
"Robert," Cobb said quietly, bringing Fischer's attention back to him. Wordlessly, he cupped one of his cheeks delicately in his hand, careful not to hurt the already abused flesh, and brought his lips to Fischer's. Cobb was hesitant at first - but then Fischer kissed him back, passionately, and Cobb caved into his desire and just took.
Breaking away from this kiss to regain his breath, Cobb whispered, "You know, I'm not really Mr. Charles."
"I know," Fischer breathed back. "It doesn't matter, because I still know who you are."
"Do you?" Cobb asked, incredulous.
Fischer smiled. "You're my protector." As he leaned in for another kiss, Cobb resolved that this job was far from over. In fact, for him, he didn't think it ever would be.
Title; From a Half Remembered Dream
Characters; Robert Fischer, Dom Cobb, Ariadne, Arthur, Eames, Others
Pairings; Cobb/Robert
Rating; R (violence)
Word count; 7443
Chapter; Completed, one-shot.
NOTES; Written for inception kink meme. Prompt - So, after inception, Cobb can't just let Robert run off to go crazy, 'cause that'd be irresponsible. So, he has the team watching (stalking) him.
THEN ONE DAY something terrible happens to Robert! Like, say, he's kidnapped off the streets. Or.... Or something. And of course, team-cobb is aware of this immediately, even where he's been taken, because they were stalking him.
....So they can't just -leave- it alone. CUE RESCUE OF AWESOME PLZ.
When they got the call, they had all already begun to scatter, each one beginning the process of disappearing into the underground once again and waiting for the next job.
Each one was woken up in a cheap room in some nameless hotel, and each one was lucky that they picked the phone up at all in the ungodly hour of morning, ripped from a deep, dreamless sleep unwillingly (except for Eames, who had just come back from a night of a little too much fun.)
Each one never expected to hear Cobb's voice on the other end of the line. "It's not even close to being over yet," was the greeting he gave them, followed by brief instructions on when and where they were meeting.
Each one stared at their phone, confused, before muttering "God dammit" and wrenching themselves out of their beds.
---
"Really, again, a warehouse, Cobb? Surely we could afford an upgrade," Eames complained, scrunching his face in an overly exaggerated display of disapproval.
"I like warehouses," Cobb dismissed with a shrug. "I'm sure you'll find a way to survive the hardship."
"You should be more considerate of Eames, Dom," Arthur said in a tone dripping with mock concern, "he really is delicate, after all." He laughed, leaning his chair back, before Eames gave him a disgusted look and kicked the back leg out, sending Arthur slamming into the floor. "Can't think of anything new?" Arthur grumbled. Eames was about to shoot back his own insult before Cobb silenced the both of them with a look that didn't need words to imply Shut the hell up.
Ariadne was the one to steer their attention back to work. "I still don't get why we're here," she remarked.
"Inception is a tricky thing. We planted the idea, sure, but we can't be one hundred percent sure that it stuck," Cobb explained. "Just ask Eames."
"I get that," Ariadne retorted quickly, "but what I don't get is why it has to be us. This isn't what we do. We deal with dreams - this isn't our area of expertise. Why are we doing recon?"
"Because Saito can trust us," Eames supplied.
"Exactly. What we did - it's huge. Inception isn't even supposed to be possible - can you imagine what would happen if anyone found out we used it to break up one of the largest energy conglomerates?"
"The consequences," Eames added in a hushed, dramatic voice, "would never be the same." He smiled to himself, but stopped when he noticed Arthur's glare.
"Thank you, Eames," Cobb said, somewhat exasperated.
"It's a shame, really," Eames continued, "that we did our job so well we'll never even get credit for it."
"That is, if we did it right and we make sure we did it right," Arthur added.
"So," Ariadne said, "Saito's hired us so he can keep the number people involved down, right? Less chance of word of what we did getting out that way."
"Basically," Cobb said with a nod. "So - down to business. Ariadne," here, Cobb handed her a folder, "you're going to be an intern at Fischer's company. We've gotten you a pretty nice position, so you should be able to keep close tabs on Fischer while he's at work."
Cobb turned to Arthur. "You'll be doing what you do best. Keep tabs on Fischer and his company, and make sure that the dismemberment of his father's empire goes smoothly." Arthur nodded his consent.
"And me?" Eames asked.
"I want you tailing Fischer. Don't let him out of your sight. I want us updated on every move he makes until we're in the clear. Think you've got it?"
"Goody," Eames muttered sarcastically. "Baby-sitting. My favorite."
"I don't want to hear any complaining," Cobb said sternly. "We are so close to pulling off the impossible. Don't let us fall short because of a shoddy follow-up."
"What about you?" Ariadne asked, one eyebrow raised. "What's your part in all this? You have to be doing something."
Cobb's face was serious. "Tying up any lose ends Saito might have left," he said, and everyone knew what he meant. "And making sure the rumor mill stays absolutely silent."
---
"Ah, yes, thank you," Eames exclaimed as Arthur climbed back into his car with a bag of cheap take-out. "Arthur, darling, I simply don't know how I would survive without you," he exclaimed his gratitude, greedily ripping off the wrappings on a ridiculously sized burger.
It was a dreary day - similar to the day in Yusuf's dream, dark and pouring rain with a chill that crept into your bones. Their job had transplanted them from L.A. to New York, chasing the young Fischer heir from meeting to meeting. Chaos descended as Fischer began the process of dissolving his father's empire. The entire team was on edge: in a few short days, Fischer would sign the papers that would finalize everything, no turning back. They would finally have succeeded: all the effort, all the hell they had gone through to make the inception happen would be realized, and they would be done.
They were all particularly anxious to resume their own lives outside of Fischer and to leave him and his newly destroyed inheritance behind. The sooner that Fischer was just a relic of their past, a memory to be forgotten and then remembered one late night after several drinks, the better. As the effects of their inception became more and more evident, each one of the team couldn't stave off the guilt steadily swallowing their conscience. Ariadne, the only one to physically interact with Fischer, was the most vocal in her guilt, questioning every bad day, every bad habit that Fischer started picking up and attributing it to their intrusion of the man's subconscious.
To be fair, Arthur and Eames had a nagging feeling she was right.
Arthur had done a thorough check (despite one crucial oversight) of Fischer's background, and he knew that something had changed. There had never been so many nights of disappearing into the city's night life, never been so many incidences where he drank so much it was a blessing he remembered his own name - to the point where one particular night Eames and Arthur had seriously debated interfering simply to make sure he didn't drop dead of alcohol poisoning in a gutter somewhere.
Likewise, there had never been any mention of Fischer locking himself away from society, retreating into his room or his hotel suite for days, refusing all human interaction. As far as Arthur and Eames had been able to discern, Fischer simply sat, alone, in silence. During these bouts of seclusion, he never made any calls, never took any visitors, never even watched any damn TV. Ariadne always figured he was taking time to catch up on reading, and Eames was certain that was a ridiculous suggestion and that Fischer had to be jacking off, but Arthur had a suspicion that he really wasn't doing anything. He was just sitting, alone and lost and unable to even deal with his own thoughts anymore.
The truth of it was - the truth that none of them ever dared speak - was that in their close surveillance of Fischer, they had all begun to truly care about him just in time to watch him fall apart. And it was their fault.
"When was the last time we heard from Cobb?" Arthur asked, breaking an awkward silence as he ripped open a package of dressing.
"First," Eames said, staring incredulously at the meal perched in Arthur's lap, "we need to talk about the fact you are eating a bloody salad."
"So?" Arthur asked indignantly. "I like salads. There's nothing wrong with that."
"Only you," Eames mumbled through a mouth full of french fries, "would get take out and order a salad. I should have expected no less from a man with your fashion sense."
Arthur began to protest, but was interrupted by the buzz of Eames's cellphone. "Ah! I wonder who it could be?" he asked, the sarcasm heavy. "Surely, it couldn't be Cobb." Answering the phone, he interrupted the voice on the other end with an enthusiastic, "Cobb! I have simply not heard from you in ages. Arthur and I were beginning to worry about you, it being all of - oh dear, nearly an hour since we last spoke. This must be a record."
"The report, Eames," Cobb asked with little patience for Eames's mockery.
"No movement. Still inside, tucked away safe and sound, exactly where's he's been for the last five hours. When he does move, I assure you, you will be the first to know."
The other line went dead, and Eames shook his head. "So rude these days," he muttered under his breath.
"Nearly an hour very literally is a record, though," Arthur commented. Eames nodded silently, turning again towards the building across the street, squinting to see through the rain. "It's a bit of a problem."
Cobb called obsessively for updates, badgering the entire team incessantly - Eames in particular, and especially after Arthur decided to tag along with him. On a good day, they could expect a demand for an update around every half hour. On a bad day, Cobb was known to call every ten minutes, his voice holding an edge that clearly reflected his nervousness.
"I'm beginning to wonder about him," Eames said. "I think his entire existence has begun to revolve around our dear Fischer."
"I can understand his concern, though," Arthur said softly. "Considering what happened to Mal...." He trailed off, stabbing at his salad.
Eames nodded his agreement. Ariadne had spilled one night, the three of them meeting for drinks, hidden on the other side of the bar from a very, very intoxicated Fischer. Eames and Arthur were throwing out their wild theories as to why Cobb had become fixated on their mark and Ariadne, pliant after a few of her own drinks, had let her own suspicions slip. It had been one hell of a buzz kill, but suddenly Eames and Arthur understood their leader a little better, and his obsession seemed a little less insane. But only slightly.
The two finished their food in a comfortable silence, occasionally bickering over the radio station. When Eames's cellphone rang again - a mere five minutes after the last time they heard from him - Eames answered it whining petulantly, "Arthur keeps switching the radio to the classical station, make him stop!"
"Cut it out," Cobb barked, and Eames instantly became serious, quickly registering the desperate edge in Cobb's voice. "I want an update."
"Look, he's still in there. No movement. I told you, Cobb, we will let you know when he moves. Right away. You can relax a little," Eames told him.
"Actually, no, I can't relax," Cobb snapped back, but didn't bother to provide an explanation. Eames didn't pry, however, as he was distracted from the conversation by Arthur hitting him in the arm.
"Eames," he said in a hushed, urgent tone, "look. Fischer just left the building. But..." he didn't finish his sentence. He didn't have to - as Eames looked out, he spotted exactly what Arthur saw.
"Shit," he muttered.
"What is it? Eames? Eames!" Cobb yelled into the receiver, but Eames didn't immediately respond, too focused on watching Fischer, praying that there was nothing really amiss.
Fischer stood on the curb, briefcase held over his head to shield himself from the rain, looking for his ride. That, alone, was normal. What Eames and Arthur were paying close attention to was the dark unmarked van that had just pulled in only a few cars down from where Fischer was standing.
Eames held his breath, hoping that the concern curling deep in his stomach was nothing, when two men got out of the car, walking quickly towards Fischer. Judging from their steady gaze locked on the young man and their forceful gates - Eames knew he had every reason to be concerned. "I think we have a situation," was the last thing he told Cobb before throwing the cellphone on his seat, holding onto the gun he was very, very thankful to have continued to carry, and ran through the rain towards Fischer. Arthur was at his side instantly, shouting at the two men as the advanced on Fischer.
"Hey! You two!" he shouted, but the two men didn't react - they were either too focused on their mission or couldn't hear him over the pouring rain.
Fischer started at Arthur's yelling, whipping his head to the side to search for the men Arthur was yelling at. One of them grabbed him from behind, covering his mouth with something - a sedative - and Fischer's body went limp within his arms. Eames pulled out his gun, but with Fischer in the attacker's grasp he didn't have a clear shot, and the other man covered him with a weapon of his own.
"Shittttt, shit, shit, shit, shit," Eames muttered under his breath. "This is not good, this is not bloody good!"
By the time the two made it across the street to where Fischer had been standing, the man who had sedated Fischer had dragged him back into the van, and the other one was joining him. "Get the van!" Arthur shouted at Eames, and Eames nodded, aiming for the vehicle.
It pealed out of its parking spot quickly, narrowly avoiding an oncoming car. "Where the fuck," Arthur growled, "is all the New York traffic?" The street was conspicuously clear of heavy traffic, and the van was able to narrowly escape Eames's fire. "Come on, we can't lose him!" Arthur shouted to Eames as both ran back to the car.
As soon as they were in the car and the engine roared to life, the street was clogged with cars, the sounds of honking nearly overpowering the pounding of rain. "Where the hell did this come from?" Eames cried, exasperated, punching the dashboard.
"Cobb is going to have our heads," was the only thing Arthur could think of to say as the pair sat, helpless, as the van carrying Robert Fischer Jr. faded completely from sight.
---
Cobb paced furiously in the small hotel room, the floor littered with so many papers it was a miracle that the carpet could be seen at all. His arms were crossed tightly against his chest, and he had to focus to keep his breathing in check. To say that he was mad was such an understatement, words could not begin to describe it.
Cobb was startled out of his rage-filled reverie by a tentative knocking on his door. Quickly checking to see who was at the door, Cobb nearly ripped the lock open to let them in. "You two," he growled through clenched teeth. "You two will be so incredibly lucky if I don't decide to kill you both when this is all over."
"Look, Cobb - " Eames began to say, but was cut off.
"What the hell happened there! How could you possibly have let that happen! You watched Robert get kidnapped. I can't even -" Cobb stopped and took a deep breath, before exhaling slowly. "And then, to make this even better, you lost the damn van! A van, for christ's sake, a giant fucking unmarked van."
"They were professionals, Dom," Arthur said cooly, trying to calm Cobb down. "They knew what they were doing, and I'm fairly sure they managed to - I don't know, manipulate traffic somehow."
"We did what we could, but there's only the two of us, Cobb," Eames explained. "Two men who have had almost no sleep because we've been following Fischer around the clock for weeks."
"Watching him so that something like this wouldn't happen!" Cobb yelled. Arthur reflexively took a step back, Cobb's rage emanating so strongly from his body, so deeply etched in every movement and every word, Arthur swore it was a palpable presence in the room. As Cobb continued to pace, muttering angrily under his breath and stopping, every so often, to throw something off his bed or the small desk, Arthur and Eames simply stood back. They needed to let Cobb vent his frustration - nothing productive was going to happen until the other man managed to calm down.
So they waited, watching Cobb with baited breath before, finally, he came to a halt, back turned to the two of them as he stared out the window. "We need to go get him," he said.
"And how are we going to do that? We don't have any idea where he is," Eames reminded Cobb.
"I think I know where he is," Cobb said, turning around and rummaging through a pile of papers strewn across his bed.
"How the hell do you know that?" Arthur asked.
"Because I know who kidnapped him," Cobb snapped. "What the hell did you think I was doing today? I was investigating some - rumors. Talk of a crew getting hired for a big job - a kidnapping. With enough digging," Cobb remarked, more focused on the organizing the papers in his hands than his words, "I was able to put two and two together. Had a feeling it was about Robert."
"So you knew this was coming and didn't tell us?" Arthur snapped. "I know you have some sharing issues, but seriously, Dom, this is the kind of stuff you should tell us about."
"This is also," Cobb said, turning of Arthur angrily, "exactly the the type of thing you should be doing! This is the assignment I gave you, Arthur. Jesus Christ - " he stopped, too exasperated to continue, before finally resuming, "I don't know what the hell is your problem, Arthur, this is the second fucking time you've slipped on this case - remind me why I keep you on the team again?" Cobb shouted at Arthur.
Arthur cringed mentally, but didn't let his face reflect it. Cobb was out of control - this had gotten personal, and his anger was clearly above and beyond what was necessary given the situation.
Eames stepped up to defend Arthur, telling Cobb, "He's been helping me, you know, keep tabs on this kid twenty four-seven, which is still a hell of a job for only two guys. Cobb, I'm telling you," Eames said, his voice strict, "you need to relax."
Cobb put his head in his hands, pulling at his hair, before exhaling deeply. "You're right. I'm sorry. We need to work together on this, keep our cool. I just - " he stopped, and left whatever he was about to say remain unspoken.
"So, what do we know about this crew?" Arthur asked.
"They're good. All professionals, most of them ex-military. They have a couple computer guys, too, so the traffic thing actually makes sense. It's definitely them," Cobb said. "They've done this sort of thing many times before... and I," Cobb said, with a grin on his face, "found out their favorite hiding place."
"Good going, Cobb," Eames said, impressed.
"Then what the hell are we waiting for?" Arthur asked "Let's go get Fischer the hell out of there."
Cobb stared down at the piece of paper in his hand, glaring at the blurry photographs of Fischer's kidnappers. "Surprise," he told them, memorizing the address underneath their pictures, before heading out the door behind Arthur and Eames.
---
Fischer came back to reality slowly, his mind protesting the whole way. Slowly opening his eyes, Fischer panicked as nothing but darkness greeted him. The ground beneath him was hard and cold - probably concrete, his mind supplied. As he struggled to sit up, he noticed with alarm his hands were tied together in front of him. Fuck, he thought to himself, as the memory of what happened immediately before came rushing back to him. I've been kidnapped.
It wasn't long until he realized the reason for his blindness was a bag over his head, and as he inventoried the entire situation - the concrete beneath him and the cold, hard wall behind his back, the restraints on his wrists chaffing against his skin, the bag over his head so he was trapped in nothing but darkness - he had a major, major feeling of déjà vu. But that was impossible.
Fischer leaned back, allowing himself to focus on whatever sounds managed to reach his ears. At first, all he could hear was the dampened sound of rain hitting the side of a building, but if he really strained, he swore he could hear the dull thud of footsteps and a few low, whispered words.
But then again, it could have just been his imagination. Between the rain and the frantic thudding of his own heart, Fischer couldn't hear anything clearly. He breathed heavily, reflexively clenching his hands and relaxing them, trying to stay cool. He was insured against kidnapping, so if the men were looking for money, his safety would be assured there. He had this nagging feeling, however, this wasn't just a kidnapping for ransom. Even then, he thought, trying to contain his rising panic, even then they must need him for something. Need him alive.
He was going to be okay. He was going to get out of this alive.
Sitting there alone in the dark, bound and frightened with only his own thoughts for company, Fischer couldn't control his mind from imagining every way these people might hurt him - every scenario in which he might end up dying a slow, painful death at their hands.
No, no, stop, he scolded. That's not happening.
For some reason, he kept returning to one particular scenario - kept seeing rough hands throwing him into the back of a van and driving off a pier, sending the van crashing into the water - but no, no, he had to stop thinking of this.
Fischer tried to turn his thoughts away from his own death, and if he couldn't escape completely, couldn't take himself away from this place, he should at least think of something practical - like who the hell these people could be. Anonymous kidnappers who knew his name and thought they could get a hefty ransom was always a possibility, but not the most likely. It was more likely someone who stood to lose a fortune when he dissolved his father's empire - someone who needed to make sure that didn't happen.
Somewhere from the darkest recesses of his mind, a name floated to the surface, unbidden and terrifying to Fischer. Uncle Peter. But it couldn't be him, Fischer told himself. His uncle Peter would never do this to him - he was like family to Fischer. He was family.
But he has a lot to lose, Fischer's mind told him. He's invested his life into this company. You're destroying everything he's worked for for so long. He pushed those thoughts away bitterly. They were impossible. As Fischer instead ran through a list of his father's most powerful stockholders, that dark, nagging suspicion remained, hidden in the back of his mind, never quite leaving his conscious thought.
Fischer didn't have much more time to think, because suddenly he heard the sound of a door slamming open, and loud, heavy footsteps approached him. He felt like his heart was going to explode if it didn't slow down, and his breathing became quick and shallow. He couldn't let them see it.
The bag over his head was ripped violently off, and Fischer blinked rapidly, adjusting his eyes to light again. Looking around, it became clear he was in a basement of some sort. Three men stood in front of him: one man, older with a nasty scar on his forehead, stood directly in front of Fischer while two extremely large men kept behind him, shooting Fischer menacing grins when he looked their way.
"Good day, Mr. Fischer," the man said, his voice low and serious.
"Look," Fischer began talking, making his voice sound as aloof as possible, "I'm insured for kidnapping for ten million dollars. This should - " he paused, suddenly, again feeling a sense of déjà vu slam against him, screaming at him that his had all happened before. But where? Fischer asked himself. It was probably just his nerves.
"We have no interest in your insurance policy, I assure you, Mr. Fischer," the man said. "All we want is your signature."
Fischer looked at him, confused. What did they want him to sign? What could possibly be that important that they needed to kidnap him?
The man nodded to one of the hulks behind him, and he came forward with a small packet of paper, throwing it in Fischer's direction. "You can read it if you like," the older man said, "but it makes no difference what it says. You are not leaving here without your signature on that paper."
Fischer picked it up, awkwardly fumbling with the papers with his hands tied together. It only took a cursory scan of the papers to figure out what this was about. "You can't be serious," he gasped.
"Oh, we're quite serious. See, your recent business plans have been... quite unsettling to a lot of very, very powerful people. People who have put a lot of money in your father's company." Fischer wanted to laugh. He didn't need this man to figure that one out. That had basically been his life for the past few weeks. "Since all efforts to sway you to the side of reason seem to have failed... they turned to me, for what I believe to be a rather elegant solution to their problem."
"You're going to have me declared mentally incompetent," Fischer filled in.
"Precisely. A psychiatrist who is a dear friend of ours, and an even dearer friend of our money," the man said with a smirk, "already has a nice, lovingly written diagnosis written up which will be more than enough to prove your incompetence. All we need is your signature, stating that you submitted yourself to the evaluation. You will get to have a lovely and extremely extended vacation at his facilities, while..."
"Uncle Peter will take over power of attorney," Fischer gasped. Oh god. "I was right. He set you up to this, didn't he?" Fischer asked, tears stinging in his eyes as he realized the betrayal.
The man laughed. "So trusting, aren't you, Robert Fischer? No, no..." he said, "your good friend Browning was not the man who hired us, I will tell you that. But we feel assured that he will take much more intelligent steps in handling your father's estate."
Fischer let himself collapse against the wall behind him, processing the entire situation. "This will destroy me," he said. "You'll keep me locked away forever, won't you? I'm never going to see the light of day again if I sign those papers."
"I'm sure," the man mocked, "that you will be allowed outside at our dear friend's facilities. With surveillance, of course, but I hear the place is very, very nice."
Fischer didn't respond, choosing to simply glare at his captors. "I'm not signing those papers," he said eventually. "You can't kill me, you need me," he challenged them. "And people will begin to look for me. They'll find us. I just have to stay alive long enough, which shouldn't be a problem."
It wasn't the older man who laughed this time, but the two younger men behind him. "Oh, dear, naive Robert..." he said with amusement. "I can assure you, we are quite safely tucked away. It could take weeks before you're found." Fischer tried to remain calm, tried to stare him down - it was a bluff, it had to be - but he could feel the color drain from his face. "There are much, much worse fates than death, Robert. You're about to find out." He turned towards one of the younger men, murmuring, "Just soften him up a little. We have plenty of time," before calmly walking out of the room, letting the door swing shut behind him.
As the first hit connected with Fischer, sending his head slamming back into the hard, unforgiving wall behind him, he realized he didn't want to know what these men considered rough if this was just 'softening up.'
---
Fischer curled in on himself, burying his bruised face into his knees. I can't do this, he realized. If they come back again... I can't do it. I can't do it again. His everything hurt. His entire body was by now, Fischer assumed, a rather attractive hue of purple and black. And, judging by the sharp pain in his chest, he also probably had a cracked rip. Choking back a strangled cry, breathing deeply in an attempt to block out the pain, Fischer stared forward. A pen and a paper were his only company, laying before him on the floor. Teasing him.
It would be so easy to sign it. Just one little action, and he couldn't be hurt again. Stop it, he yelled at himself suddenly. You can't sign it. You can't. You'd be throwing your entire life away. But as the sharp pain in his rib flared up again, he started to doubt himself again. Nonononono, he scolded himself again. Focus. Focus on what will happen if you sign it.
Unable to - or, more precisely, unwilling to focus on his rather bleak future, no matter the outcome of the ordeal, Fischer sank back into his own private fantasy. One constructed as the two men kicked the ever loving shit out of him that he clung to, kept imagining over and over again in his head, because if he stopped thinking of that and let himself think of what had happened -
the bag is back over his head, so he can't see where the next assault is coming from - a kick in his side, a man heaving him up again and punching him in the jaw, slamming him to the ground - he can't predict the next one, can't protect his body with whatever feeble attempts he might be able to muster up and sometimes, they pause, allowing him to simply sit in the silence and collect his breath, heaving and gasping against the pain, and he relaxes again because he thinks they're done, it's done, they'll leave now before out of nowhere there's a massive blow in his back or his stomach or his head and it begins all over again, again and again and without and mercy and he wants to cry but there isn't even enough time between assaults to cry -
he never would have made it out.
Fischer imagined a man - a specific man, and he didn't know where his mind came up with him because he'd never even met him before, seen anyone like him - but he could see this man clearly in his mind's eye. His name was Mr. Charles, and if Fischer wasn't in his own private hell at the moment he would have been ashamed that his mind couldn't come up with a better name for his mysterious protector. In any event, in this fantasy, Mr. Charles would always burst through the door, easily and quickly shooting down Fischer's attackers before taking him into his arms, brushing his damp hair out of his face, his lips brushing his forehead as he whispered, "I'm here to protect you, Robert. I'm here to protect you."
Every now and again Fischer would realize how ridiculous this scenario was, and yell at himself, ashamed that this was what he was using to cope. It worked, however, so Fischer soon became less and less objectionable to it, and more and more willing to let his mind wander and imagine it again and again.
Without warning, Fisher was ripped from his own imaginings by the other man bursting through the door again. "Having fun, Robert? I hope you and my friends here played together nicely." The three shared a small laugh, but Fischer simply stared at the floor, not watching their faces. "If for any reason you're not enjoying your stay here - though I do hope you are - you can always just..." the man's voice dropped, almost to a whisper, as he crouched down on the floor in front of Fischer, "sign right... here." He pushed the paper and pen towards Fischer.
Fischer gulped. He knew what was going to happen if he didn't sign it. But....
He couldn't throw his life away. Not yet. Not over a few bruises and a broken rib. When it came down to it, he knew he had more than that. Fischer looked up at his captor, who had begun to lean in towards him, and smiled. "Don't worry. I'm finding my stay absolutely charming," he spat out. "Your friends' hospitality is unmatched."
"Fine then," the man said, picking up the papers and pen as he stood back up. "Have it your way. I have no objections to letting the boys here go at you again." He loomed over Fischer now, who had to stare upwards to look at him. "It's good anger management." With that said, he told the two younger men, "Harder this time, but nothing too serious." They nodded, throwing the bag back over Fischer's head and his world turned to nothing but darkness once again.
He heard the door click shut as the other man left the room. He heard the two men steps towards him, and he instinctually curled his body tighter into a ball as he prepared for their blows.
Then he heard the click of a gun, shortly followed by a bang that pierced the quiet room so sharply his ears rang.
He also heard screaming as his mind registered the pain in his leg, which was quickly taking over his entire consciousness, and it hurt, holy fuck it hurt like nothing else -
The scream was coming from his own throat. "Fuck," he gasped, trying desperately to quiet the noises he was making, not wanting to give his assailants the satisfaction of knowing just how much pain they were putting him through. His chest heaving, slowly, and gritting his teeth, he was able to make himself quiet. This didn't last for long, however, as the pain flared up even worse as one of the men sent his foot crashing into Fischer's injured leg, and this time the pain was so bad he didn't even bother trying to stop screaming. He just let it come as if he could expel the pain through his cries, as if it would somehow make it better, because his mind couldn't process anything else besides the ungodly pain enveloping his leg.
I'm going to die here, Fischer thought when his mind was finally able to work again, jesus christ, they're going to go too far and they're going to kill me and I'm going to die here.
Another shot rang out, and Fischer cringed instantly, expecting to feel another wound - but it didn't come. "What the hell?" one of the captors said, and it was the first words Fischer had heard anyone except their leader speak.
Two more shots rang out, and Fischer could feel the nervousness of the two men rising. "The fuck is going on out there..." the one man growled.
"What the hell do you think is going on! Someone goddamn found us and they're attacking, you fucking moron," The first one snapped. "Stay here. Don't fucking let them get to him, alright? I'm going to go see what's going on." Fischer heard him leave the room, before the remaining man hoisted him up off the ground.
A strangled cry bubbled out of his throat as his leg protested, screaming at the movement, and he felt the the pressure of the barrel of a gun against the back of his head. "Don't think this means you're getting out of here," the man growled in his ear. "If we're taken down, you're going down with us."
Fischer heard voices erupt outside the door. "Move aside, darling," came one muted voice, not far beyond the door, "and maybe I won't kill you."
"Like hell I will -" said another voice, which Fischer identified as the other man who had helped 'soften him up.' Two shots rang out, and Fischer heard the thump of a body falling to the ground.
"Christ, Eames, that was risky," another voice spat out. "You could have gotten yourself killed there."
"But I didn't," the voice that Fischer assumed was Eames said.
"This isn't a goddamn dream, Eames, there are consequences to getting shot out here - " the man was interrupted.
"Stop bickering for once," another voice snapped - a voice that Fischer recognized instantly. It can't be, his mind raced. But it was. He knew that voice, and it was like every fiber in his body was wired to be able to recognize that one voice. It was Mr. Charles.
As the door slammed open, his assailant's grip around him tightened. Fischer wished more than ever that he didn't have that goddamn bag over his head, so he could see who his rescuers were - so he could see the man with Mr. Charles's voice, so he could see if it was, by some cosmic accident, actually him.
"Let him go," Mr. Charles commanded.
"Like hell I'm letting him go," said Fischer's remaining captor. "You're going to kill me either way - might as well take this fucker with me."
"Let him go and we won't," the still unidentified voice said. "We'll get you out of here, ok? Give you money and a plane ticket, and you can get as far away from here as you want and we'll never bother you again," he assured.
Fischer's heart was pounding at speeds that shouldn't be humanly possible, and pressed against his captor's chest, he could tell his was, too. He shuffled a bit, and in his silence Fischer hoped he was considering the offer. "You think I'm going to fall for that?" he said finally. "You think I would actually be dumb enough to trust you?" The barrel of the gun was pressed harder against Fischer's skull, and a small whimper inadvertently tore itself out of Fischer's throat.
"You goddamn better!" Mr. Charles shouted, and the British voice - Eames, Fischer remembered - spoke quietly, "Cobb, stay calm."
"No, no, I'm not that dumb. But you're right... I am getting out of here. I am getting out of here alive," Fischer's assailant said, and it was clear by the slight rise in his voice that he was starting to panic. Keeping his gun pressed firmly against Fischer, he moved forward, hitting Fischer's leg and causing him to cry out.
"Cobb..." Fischer heard Eames mutter again, obviously trying to keep him calm.
"Put your guns down," the captor barked. "And keep your hands where I can see them. Now!" Slowly, the clattering of guns against the ground sounded out. "Good," the captor muttered, "good. Now, I'm going to walk out of here with Fischer, alright? You're going to stay where I can see you, and I'm going to walk out of here. I'm going to get into a car, and I'm going to drive away, and if you're really, really lucky," the man ground out, "Fischer here will turn up alive somewhere. Do you understand?" Fischer didn't hear a response, but as the man slowly began walking forward again, he assumed they had given their consent. No, no, no, he screamed in his mind, don't let him take me, please, save me, please, protect me.
It seemed like hours, with the man slowly pressing forward, the pressure of the gun against Fischer's head periodically increasing. "Don't you try anything, don't you dare try a goddamn thing," the man muttered.
Suddenly - out of nowhere - another shot rang out, and the man holding onto Fischer suddenly let go, falling on top of him and crushing him into the ground. Fischer let out a strangled sob as the pain in his leg burned, the other man pinning it to the floor.
"Ariadne!" Eames exclaimed, clearly impressed. "I didn't know you could shoot like that!"
A female voice spoke, one that Fischer hadn't heard before. "Neither did I," she admitted.
The other three began to speak excitedly, but Fischer stopped paying attention, stopped paying attention to anything else besides the pain in his leg. The weight of the man's body was pushed off of him, and the bag was lifted off of his head. As Fischer stared up at his rescuer, he felt his breath catch in this throat. Jesus christ.
It was Mr. Charles. He pulled Fischer up, into his arms, burying his face into his hair and murmuring, "You're safe now, Robert, you're safe, jesus christ, what did they do to you, I'm so sorry, but you're safe, you're safe now, understand?"
Fischer simply smiled lazily, the best he could against the growing pain in his leg, whispering, "I know," before everything faded to black.
---
When Fischer woke the next time, he was on a soft bed, his hands were free and his vision was unobstructed. He blinked, clearing his sight, and looked around. It looked like he was in a hotel room. Glancing to the side, he saw Mr. Charles slumped over in a chair next to his bed. He was asleep. Fischer didn't want to wake him, not really, but the pain in his leg also awoke, and his protests jolted the sleeping man awake.
"Shhh," he hushed Fischer, "stay still. I'll help you." He was fiddling with an IV stand. Looking back at Fischer, Cobb offered a small smile and told him, "You should be feeling much better very soon."
Fischer's eyelids fluttered as the rush of painkillers entered his bloodstream. "Why am I not in a hospital?" he asked, glancing at his surroundings another time.
"It's not safe there," Cobb said softly. "The people who had you kidnapped... well. Let's just say that it wouldn't be out of the question for them to get a hold of you in a hospital. You're safer here."
"With you?" Fischer asked. Cobb felt his insides tighten at this, guilt gnawing away at him.
"Yeah, with me," Cobb agreed. He didn't know what else to say to that. Staring at Fischer's badly bruised face, Cobb added, quietly, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry this happened."
"You saved me," Fischer told him, confident. "You have no reason to be sorry. I, on the other hand, only have reason to be grateful." Cobb wanted to laugh, wanted to laugh at the irony, at the overwhelming guilt Fischer's comment inspired in him, because all of this was his fault, his fault, and here Fischer was thanking him.
It was all too much.
"I - " Fischer started, but stopped, seeming to consider deeply what he wanted to say. "I knew you would come. I don't know how, but I knew." His words were like a punch in the face to Cobb. "It kept me going, you know, when..." he trailed off. "I just wanted to thank you for that, too."
"I didn't have anything to do with that, either," Cobb said, the guilt now almost too much for him to handle. "You shouldn't thank me for that."
"But you did," Fischer insisted. "It had everything to do with you," he asserted, struggling to sit up so he could look Cobb straight in the eye. Cobb placed a hand against his chest, gentle but firm, not allowing Fischer to strain himself.
"I thought I told you to stay still," he remarked.
"I didn't think you meant forever," Fischer returned. He stared at Cobb, their faces closer than what was comfortable. Fischer's lips, soft and full, were ever-so-slightly parted, and he stared at Cobb with those piercing blue eyes so intently. Cobb wasn't a fool - he knew what was going on. He knew that Fischer was offering him something, and he knew exactly what it was.
Cobb wanted desperately to lean in and claim it - take everything that Fischer was willing to give - but he couldn't, because he had no right to take anything from this man broken by Cobb himself.
But it was oh, so very tempting. Cobb leaned back, suddenly, distancing himself safely from Fischer. Hurt and humiliation flashed in Fischer's clear blue eyes, and it made Cobb ache to see that look. Staring at Fischer, who broke eye contact and chose to gaze at the wall, dejected, Cobb realized he wanted to help him. Wanted to erase all the hurt, all the pain he was feeling, and to never, ever let that hurt flash through his eyes again.
"Robert," Cobb said quietly, bringing Fischer's attention back to him. Wordlessly, he cupped one of his cheeks delicately in his hand, careful not to hurt the already abused flesh, and brought his lips to Fischer's. Cobb was hesitant at first - but then Fischer kissed him back, passionately, and Cobb caved into his desire and just took.
Breaking away from this kiss to regain his breath, Cobb whispered, "You know, I'm not really Mr. Charles."
"I know," Fischer breathed back. "It doesn't matter, because I still know who you are."
"Do you?" Cobb asked, incredulous.
Fischer smiled. "You're my protector." As he leaned in for another kiss, Cobb resolved that this job was far from over. In fact, for him, he didn't think it ever would be.