(no subject)
Fandom; Inception
Title; and what do you think happens if you never wake up
Characters; Robert Fischer, Dom Cobb, Arthur
Pairings; Cobb/Robert
Rating; PG-13
Word count; ~10700
NOTES; Prompt was Cobb is still stuck in the dream, he just doesn't know. Robert is out in the real world and has begun dissolving the empire, but there's still something he JUST CAN'T get out of his head. That something being his Mr. Charles. After much searching, he finds the man in a hospital in a coma. Robert figures/finds out he's stuck in his head, and then puts together a team to get Cobb out. Because he is obsessed/it's ~twu wuv~/etc.
There is a cell.
It is the kind you see in movies, all cold and unfeeling concrete with a small rusted frame and a thin film of material that is supposed to be a mattress laying on top of it, and it serves as a bed. Bars stretch the entire length of the cell, guarding the rest of the world from its occupant and guarding him from them. By appearance the cell stands alone, an island in a sea of nothing tangible but full of memories and thoughts and hopes, ideas that swirl together and create this world. There is just one item to keep the cell company; only one companion in the realm of the physical, sitting just beyond arm's reach from the cell. It is a small, silver top, and it spins and spins and spins and never falls over.
Cobb dreams. He dreams of lives, unfolding before him like a film projected on a wall and he watches them between the bars with attentive eyes and a detached mind. He watches his children as they turn and smile at him, as they play in fields and as they learn how to drive. He remembers that he used to be with them, but then he watched them leave him to lead their own lives, and then he watches an empty house because there's nothing left to fill it.
If he tries - if he stops watching his thoughts play out in front of him and reaches within them instead - he will realize that this is how he came here; that he created that world with his children, constructed their destinies and watched them leave and sat in that empty house, alone, so he rewound time and watched it again, and again, and again until before he even knew it he was here, and he stays here with the knowledge that he created this place before him but remains unable to connect with it.
Cobb dreams of more than his children now; he dreams of himself, and his team, and of all the other dreams and the other minds he entered; he watches himself find Arthur and Eames, and remembers losing many more names that he finds himself having a hard time placing. He dreams of dreaming and all the levels he's explored, and the prices he paid to get there.
Sometimes, but only very rarely, he dreams of Mal. It's not the same Mal that he kept locked away in a cage, but a recording of her that he plays back to himself, over and over and over again. Then he remembers that she's not here anymore, and he has to let go, so he stops dreaming of her again and it's a while before he'll revisit her.
Sometimes it occurs to him that he's the one he's locking up in a cage now.
---
Fischer stared down at the empty bottle in his hands. The fact that he couldn't remember what number this one was should have been an indication that he shouldn't reach for another, but he found himself doing precisely that. He never used to be a drinker - he would drink when he was out and was expected to, but he had gotten his wild days out in college and had been ready to move on and leave them behind. Or, that had been the case before his father's death. That was what had changed everything.
Fischer had spent so much of his life yearning for his father's approval, trying to be exactly like him in every way - to be the perfect business man, the one who had his eye on the prize and never looked down as he strove for the top - but Fischer had always suspected, somewhere deep within him in a place that he hid even from himself, that this wasn't the case. He was never going to be his father, and no matter how hard he tried to emulate the man in every way, it was never going to happen. His own shortcomings ever increasingly obvious as his father's health declined and more of the company's responsibilities rested on his shoulders, Fischer had known - was completely, utterly certain - that he had disappointed his father by never living up to his legacy.
But when his father called him up to his death bed, had uttered that one word to him - at first, Fischer thought that he had been right. But then the realization of what his father really meant had hit him like a ton of bricks, and well -
Honestly, Fischer had begun to wish he that he thought his father still hated him. When he first took a step back, and with fresh eyes was able to realize his father never expected him or wanted him to become Maurice Fischer the relief had been indescribable. When Fischer then decided that he was finally going to rid himself of his father's shadow, casting away the weight of trying to be a man he was never able to become, his whole life had been given a new purpose. He was going to dismantle Fischer-Morrow, and he was going to take the ashes and create something new. Something for himself, something that had no traces of his father and was entirely, without doubt, his own creation.
The problems had started when Fischer realized he didn't know who he was. That his entire life, he had invested all of his energy in trying to become Maurice Fischer and he had missed every opportunity to become Robert Fischer instead. He could tear down Fischer-Morrow, strip himself of all of his father's influences, but - then what was he left with? He had thought he was going to discover himself. And I did, he thought bitterly. There's just nothing there.
If not the heir to Fischer-Morrow, what was he? After an entire life of identifying with his father, the company - and now he had nothing to draw from, nothing to point to when he thought There, that's me. For the first time in his life he was being forced to truly look within himself, and if Fischer were being perfectly honest, he would rather look within a bottle of alcohol.
When Fischer drank, it didn't seem so important anymore that he didn't know who he was or what he was going to do with himself. It didn't matter that he had just secured another buyer for another parcel of Fischer-Morrow and he was that much closer to losing the only safety net he had known in his life. It didn't matter that he didn't have a plan for the next ten years, five years, hell, even the next year. And it definitely didn't matter that none of this mattered to anyone else.
With his mind sluggish and all this thoughts fogged, like a landscape viewed through the gauzy film of thin curtains early in the morning, Fischer could stop caring about anything at all.
There was only one thing that kept Fischer from drinking his problems away until he had drunk everything away, and that was his dreams. Even more than he looked forward to forgetting himself in a bottle of wine, Fischer looked forward to finding someone else while he slept.
It was his own private comfort, a secret sanctuary that no one knew about and no one could touch. It was indulgent and fantastic and it sometimes made him feel like a teenage girl with a dirty little secret on some trite cable television show, and it was exactly the type of the thing that would make psychologists around the world go crazy. But it was the only thing that made him feel real, so Fischer held onto it, keeping it hidden away and near to his heart.
Whenever Fischer closed his eyes, his mind always went to the same place and the same person and the same experience, and it was identical each and every night.
During the day, Fischer could only remember bits and pieces and flashes of the dream, but after so many nights of always dreaming the same dream he was able to collect enough shards of memory to piece them together, creating a mosaic of emotions and memories that, when viewed from afar, revealed the entire picture.
It begins with tiled walls and mirrors and sinks, and Fischer suspected that it must be a public restroom somewhere, but more importantly it begins with a sharp sense of panic and confusion and adrenaline all rolled into one, and it is just so incredibly overwhelming and so it always begins with Fischer on the absolute brink of insanity.
He could recall the feel of the cool metal of the barrel of a gun pressed up against his head, and for a while when he could barely remember anything at all he thought that it was someone trying to kill him. He knew now that the was the one who holds the gun, finger on the trigger and ready to squeeze. Ready to fall off the edge.
It's then that Fischer realizes that he isn't alone, that there's another man there with him. He is the same age as Fischer, with dark blonde hair slicked back against his head and eyes that are wide with fear. He is staring at Fischer, and at this point, he says something but Fischer can never remember what exactly it is. Whatever the exact words were didn't matter to Fischer, because the thing that stuck with him most - the thing that made him cling to this dream and keep returning to it, turning it over in his mind again and again - is the feeling that hangs between the two of them then, the moment where the other man's eyes just bare into Fischer and Fischer knows he can trust him - knows that this man was going to take care of him and that he isn't going to be on the edge anymore.
The absolute calm that washes over him at this point, relaxing every tendon in his body and easing the arm holding the gun down next to his side, is the most beautiful thing ever, and it was a calm that Fischer had never before experienced when awake.
There are two things that Fischer could always hold onto after he woke up, that remained in his mind so sharp and clear it almost felt like it was piercing his conscious mind: the man's face and the man's name. He called himself Mr. Charles.
---
Cobb finally dreams of something more than just memories on a wall, and it takes him off guard when it happens. He didn't expect this and he certainly would not have guessed that it would be him that he brings to life, him that his mind turns into something tangible - something he can touch and feel and interact with.
But it's Robert Fischer who's standing outside of his cell, in between him and the top that never falls over, and he stands there so still that for a moment Cobb doesn't even realize that he's not just another memory being played out like a broken record. But then he says his name, so soft it's barely more than a whisper. "Dom Cobb," he breathes, and it sounds natural rolling off of his tongue. Cobb doesn't react at first for no other reason than the fact that he's forgotten how to react, forgotten how to be more than just a passive observer. It's been so long since he's used his voice, it is startling to hear it ringing in his ears and to feel it vibrating in his throat.
"Robert Fischer." He's not sure what he should say, because he's not sure why he's there.
The other man doesn't seem to know what to say either, and Cobb supposes that it only makes sense that the rest of his subconscious is as awkward and clumsy at this as he is. So Fischer just cocks his head slightly to the side, never letting his clear blue eyes break contact with Cobb's.
"Why are you here?" Cobb asks him. It feels like the right question to ask, though he doesn't expect an answer.
"I've been looking for you," Fischer tells him.
"What for?" If they keep this up, they can get an easy ebb and flow going, and Cobb is growing more confidant and slowly regaining his own self-awareness. He rises up from the bed, walking over to where Fischer stands, the two equidistant from the bars separating them.
When Fischer whispers "I need you," Cobb suddenly understands why his mind chose him.
---
Fischer was eating dinner with Browning when he made the decision. The dining room was large and filled with decorations and furnishings worth more than most people would see in their lifetimes, but it lacked anything that carried with it a value that actually meant something to Fischer, and the atmosphere was devoid of the emotion and comforts that filled the kitchen tables of families that lived with and loved one another. His chef was the best that money could buy, but all the food tasted bland in his mouth and Fischer realized he couldn't stomach any more of it.
A heavy silence had descended upon the two diners, so when Fischer slammed his fork down onto the table the sound reverberated through the air with such force that, to the two men, it could have been the shot heard 'round the world. Browning glanced upwards from his food momentarily, but as the younger of the two suspected, remained completely silent. Fischer placed his palms down on the table, staring at Browning as he ate, waiting for him to question him or offer a remark - any remark - on his strange behavior. It didn't come, so Fischer announced instead, "I'm leaving."
This captured his god father's interest, who, raising his eyes to meet Fischer's, slowly tore the napkin out of his shirt, placing it down on the table as he stared expectantly at the younger man. "Leaving to where?" he asked, forming the words as lightheartedly as if they were talking about the weather.
"I don't know," Fischer admitted lamely. "I need to look for someone."
"Ah," Browning said, in a voice that seemed to convey that he already knew what this was all about, and he was merely humoring Fischer. The younger man narrowed his eyes. Realizing he was expected to add something else, Browning asked noncommittally, "And just who exactly are you looking for?"
"A man," Fischer said.
"Well, that shouldn't be too hard," his godfather replied with a shrug. "You just make sure to keep it under wraps." Then, as though he had just narrowly escaped a rather long conversation that would include sharing and feelings, he continued to eat his dinner.
"Uncle Peter -" Fischer sighed, exasperated. "Why did you even - no, never mind." They could have that conversation later. Fischer had more important things he wanted to discuss, and he needed to get them out now. It wouldn't take long. "I'm looking for a specific man. A man who goes by the name Mr. Charles."
"And where did you meet this Mr. Charles?" Browning asked, but Fischer could tell he had already tuned out of the conversation.
"I've never met him," Fischer admitted, leaning back in his chair, letting his head tilt backwards. The movement should have been a natural one, but the tension in the room was so stifling that it came across only as awkward and out of place and Fischer quickly righted himself, sitting up with his back straight once again. "Look - Uncle Peter, it doesn't matter," Fischer said bitterly, adding only to himself, I don't even know if he exists. I think I saw him on an airplane for a moment but I don't even know if that happened. "I just wanted to let you know that I want you to look after the company in my absence." With that, Fischer stood up from his chair, staring down at Browning as he waited for his reply.
Browning didn't say anything to that, just kept on eating without even looking at Fischer a second time. Browning cared about Fischer; he wasn't going to say anything to him that would hurt. But he also wasn't going to lie, or say words that he didn't quite mean. It had always been one of the traits that Fischer admired most in his godfather.
I will do a better job than you, anyway.
If Fischer were ever asked about what prompted his decision and the subsequent declaration that night, he would reply it was because he didn't like the food.
---
As it so happened to turn out, there were quite a lot of Mr. Charles's in the world. Fischer wasn't deterred.
---
It had been the natural decision, Fischer knew, because it was his only possible lead. The woman looked at him kindly as she kept her hand raised over the pad of paper, the pencil gripped lightly in long fingers as she waited for a response. Fischer froze. He knew Mr. Charles's face better than he knew his own, and he would have been able to pick the man out of a crowd of thousands.
Fischer panicked, slightly, feeling the stare of the sketch artist bearing down on him. She thinks I'm crazy, the thought to himself I would think I'm crazy if I were here. His mouth was open slightly, and he realized, suddenly, he didn't have a damn clue how to describe Mr. Charles. He could picture him clearly in his mind's eye - see every detail on the other man's face - but it was mixed together with his own emotions and he didn't think that telling the sketch artist that this man had eyes that were calm and steady and able to draw away all the turmoil inside of Fischer's body was going to work.
This realization caused a panic to flare up, curling within his gut, and he instinctively clutched his hands in fear. He had to remember, had to be able to to make this work because this was the only only thing he had of Mr. Charles, only memory he could cling to in the daylight hours, and the perfect clarity in which Fischer saw Mr. Charles was the single reason he thought he might be real at all, and if he didn't really have this at all, then he had nothing. His mind raced, but it felt like wheels spinning in mud and he wasn't going anywhere but he was kicking up a lot of dirt and a lot of worry.
The woman continued to stare at him, with all the patience in the world, and had Fischer had been in her place, he would have been much more agitated than she was. "Just relax," she suggested gently. "It can be hard, I understand, to try to translate what you see in your mind into words."
Fischer just nodded, mutely. She was exactly right.
"I'm going to guide you through the process," she told him, offering a reassuring smile. "You don't have to worry. This isn't like television - not everyone can sit down and reel off a perfectly accurate description without prompting." Fischer continued to nod at her words. "Just close your eyes for me, Mr. Fischer," and he quickly followed her instructions. "Hold the picture of his face in your head, and just focus on that for me, alright?" He could do that, Fischer told himself. He could do that.
She began to ask questions, simple and easy to answer, and he could hear the the scratch of pencil against paper. He was able to answer all of them quickly, and every now and then she would ask him to look and see if this was quite right or if she should change that, and Fischer knew instantly if it were correct or not.
He just held onto that picture of Mr. Charles, held onto it with all the concentration in the world, and if he kept concentrating on Mr. Charles then maybe, maybe he could bring back that calm that always came with the man.
---
The words are beautiful to Cobb, and even more beautiful because they're being spoken to him, and it's been so long since anything was spoken to him at all.
"I need you because you broke me," and now the words are like a knife to his chest.
"What - " Cobb begins to ask, but Fischer isn't waiting for him to respond, doesn't even take notice of the fact that Cobb's eyes have widened and his mouth is ajar, and he begins to twist the knife.
"You took away the only thing I had - stripped me of the only thing that gave me an identity and then you left me to pick up the pieces when there wasn't anything I could even pick up. And you made this, Cobb. You made me." There's anger that flashes in his eyes, and Cobb wants to take a step back but those eyes have hypnotized him and he can't move at all.
"This is everything I am now - a man without substance, a man without a purpose, a man without an identity, a man without a future - and even worse," his eyes narrow, "and even worse I'm a man without free will."
Cobb wants to same something, wants to protest but there's nothing there for him to say, nothing that he can say because Fischer is right - right because he had found every fear Cobb had held, vocalized everything that Cobb had hoped wouldn't come true for him.
Fischer stops talking then, and lets himself stare at Cobb, and Cobb realizes that any anger that had been held within those eyes has vanished. They're clear and Cobb can see right through them, and he sees that Fischer is open and hurting and vulnerable.
And it was Cobb who put all of those emotions - all of those feelings - in Fischer's mind.
---
It didn't take long for Fischer to get a hit on the sketch he had made, and while he was surprised, he also knew that was what money and connections could afford him.
When a small hospital just outside of L.A. had come forward, telling him that they had a John Doe in their care that had matched the sketch perfectly, Fischer didn't know whether it was extreme luck that he had found Mr. Charles so close to him, or fate playing a sick, twisted joke on because this was how he found him.
He had been so worried that Mr. Charles didn't actually exist, or if he did, he would never find him; but now that he had found Mr. Charles, Fischer wasn't sure if it wouldn't have been best if he hadn't. He had found him in the bleakest hospital that could possibly have existed in the entire country, and when Fischer saw the real Mr. Charles for the first time, he was just one of several bodies that lay on metal beds with humming machines, against walls with peeling gray paint.
The nurse that had brought him here looked at Fischer cautiously, still not sure of the strange man that had carried with him an air of authority and demanded to see a man forgotten by everyone including himself. "Do you know him?" she had asked Fischer kindly when he first made the request, but Fischer had wordlessly shook his head. In truth, Fischer hadn't wanted to say that he didn't know Mr. Charles - didn't want to admit aloud that he had no clue who this man was and that he might not be the man Fischer thought he was at all.
When Fischer had seen the man that the hospital had told him was his Mr. Charles, his heart nearly stopped. The face unnaturally still, eyes closed and unresponsive, he knew instinctively it was the same face but it seemed more like a replica of the man in his dreams - a wax figurine that could never capture the warmth and emotion that a real person held. His insides churned.
He must have allowed something to reveal itself on his face, despite the fact he had wanted to keep it completely devoid of expression, because the nurse placed one hand on his shoulder in what he knew was her attempt to be comforting. "Would you like some time with him?" she asked softly. "I can get a chair."
Fischer moved away from the contact. "No," he said, the word much stronger and harsher than he had originally intended, "no, I don't want to sit with him." Then he turned away from the John Doe on the bed, because, like that, he was just John Doe - and Fischer didn't want to see him when he wasn't Mr. Charles. Couldn't see him when he wasn't Mr. Charles.
"But I do have some questions." The nurse nodded silently, taken aback, before scurrying after him as he left the room without looking back.
---
The chairs in the hospital cafeteria were cheap and plastic and curved in a way that forced Fischer's back into an awkward position. He grimaced, trying to find a more comfortable position, but it was impossible to find.
After his first time here - his first time seeing Mr. Charles and the last time since then - Fischer had questioned the nurses, trying to squeeze every drop of information that he could. He had realized quickly that the nurses knew something that they weren't telling him, and Fischer hadn't wanted to open his wallet for them but it had seemed likely that it would come to that.
But then the nurse who had taken him to see Mr. Charles had led him away, eyes darting anxiously before whispering to him, "There's another man. Who comes and visits him."
"Someone who knows him?" Fischer asked, surprised. "Then why hasn't he been identified?"
"He claims he doesn't," the nurse said. "But everyone knows he does. It's obvious. He comes here every week at the same time, though sometimes he'll miss a week or two, and he goes up there and just - talks to him."
"About what?" Fischer pried.
The nurse simply shrugged. "I don't know. He doesn't speak loud enough for us to here from the doorway, and he won't say anything if we're in the room with him. But I bet you - if you want to find out anything about your John Doe up there, this man is the one who can tell you."
So Fischer came back and waited for this man, sitting in the cafeteria with a cup of coffee that tasted horrible hot and even worse icy cold. The nurse had promised she would let him know when the mystery guest arrived, and Fischer kept one careful eye trained on her as he waited for a signal.
He was just about to give up when the nurse looked up from what she was doing and locked eyes with Fischer, jerking her head towards a man signing in at the front desk.
Suddenly, Fischer felt insides clench; he was nervous, but the feeling was strange to him because he couldn't place why. Trying to keep his gait cool and collected, Fischer walked towards the man using every once of self-restraint not to break into a run to get to him, to reach him before he walked away.
Fischer just managed to block his path as he turned away from the desk. "Hello," he said, realizing that he was far too close to his other man, but not caring that he was intruding. He couldn't let him sneak away. The man's eyes widened when he saw Fischer, and he instantly jumped back, looking at him with what Fischer knew was recognition. He felt his heart leap at this; if this man knew Fischer - then, it was a link, a real, tangible link between himself and Mr. Charles. The first sign that he might not be crazy.
"Let's talk," Fischer told him, and the man gazed at him with narrowed eyes and Fischer could tell his mind was racing as he tried to figure out what his next move should be. But then his body relaxed, and he conceded to Fischer. "Alright," he said, allowing Fischer to lead him back to the cafeteria, all the while his eyes casing their surroundings.
"What's your name?" Fischer asked as he sat back down at his table, the coffee he never finished drinking exactly where he had left it. "It's not really David Collins, is it?" he stated, referring to the name the man had written down on the sign-in sheet.
"It's Arthur," the man told him, and it was said with such a tone of finality that Fischer didn't even bother asking him for his last name. He knew that was all of the information he was going to get the man to give about himself. It didn't matter. Fischer didn't care about who Arthur was - he cared about Mr. Charles, or John Doe, or whoever the man sleeping in the hospital bed three floors above them was.
"Who is he?" Fischer asked, using the type of voice he normally reserved for dealing with the people who worked under him, the type of voice that made things get done, the type of voice that didn't allow the reply of, Who are you talking about? Arthur wasn't the only one who could play that game.
"I don't know," Arthur said, his voice unerringly even. Cold. Professional. "If I did know who he was, he wouldn't still be John Doe."
"That's bullshit," Fischer spat. "Do not sit there and look me in the eye and try to sell me that, because, honestly, it's embarrassing. Do you really think I'm going to believe that? You underestimate me, Arthur," he said, emphasizing the other man's name. "I've had to see through much, much better lies than this in my line of business."
"I'm sure you're quite good at it, too, Mr. Fischer," Arthur said calmly, not rising to Fischer's bait, "but I'm telling you the truth." He paused for a moment, and seeing that Fischer was not about to give up, continued. "You seem to be putting a lot of effort into get yourself into something that has nothing to do with you," he remarked.
"I assure you," Fischer said, "it has everything to do with me." If this Arthur genuinely believed that, Fischer added to himself mentally, then he obviously couldn't know as much as he thought.
"No," Arthur returned quickly. "It doesn't. You're a business man, Mr. Fischer, and whatever this is doesn't have a damn thing to do with your kind of business - let alone the energy business."
"Don't pay attention to the news much, do you?" Fischer asked lightly. "I'm not going to be a business man for much longer."
"Then make sure you get to see that day," Arthur said harshly, and it was the closest thing to a threat that he had uttered. Fischer knew this was the point where he should back off, but it merely spurred him forward. If Arthur had reason to threaten him, then it meant that there was something he didn't want him to find out - that there was something to find out at all. "Just focus on your company, keep moving forward with your plans," he said, never explaining which plans he meant, but he didn't have to because Fischer was perfectly aware what he was referring to, "and stop trying to interfere with things that are far, far removed from your world. Go back to your own life, Mr. Fischer," he urged, leaning forward slightly as he spoke this.
Go back to your own life. Fischer opened his mouth to say something, but he couldn't shake those words off. They sat in his mind, heavy and weighing on his brain. Go back to your own life. "I don't have one," Fischer admitted after some time, his voice soft. "I don't have anything to go back to." He didn't know why he was telling Arthur this - didn't know why he was revealing so much of himself to this stranger.
Arthur didn't respond. He just stood up, the motion swift and fluid and possessing more grace in that single movement that Fischer would in his entire life, staring down at Fischer just one second too long before turning his back on him and walking away. Fischer didn't go after him, just watched as one moment Arthur's retreating back filled his sight and the next he was gone, disappearing into the fold as he resumed his place amongst the shadows.
Fischer had seen something flash in his eyes in that second - something that had looked a lot like sadness and a little like guilt. He didn't know what to make of that.
---
It was just a week after that encounter when Fischer was ripped out of slumber by the ringing of his cellphone. He flipped it open groggily, pressing it against his ear as he desperately tried to wipe the sleep out of his eyes and clear his mind. "Hello?" he asked, his voice not quite ready to be used just yet.
"Robert Fischer?" a voice asked, quiet and hushed, and the sounds of people talking and laughing were heard so loudly in the background Fischer very nearly couldn't hear the stranger on the other end.
"You're talking to him," he said, pulling his body up into a sitting position with effort. "Who is this?" he asked, annoyed.
"You want information," the stranger continued, ignoring Fischer's question. "Information on a certain John Doe." This sentence snapped Fischer's mind into attention, instantly shattering any remnants of sleep that still clung to him.
"And you have it?" he asked, gripping the side of the bed. He knew this man probably had nothing - had heard from one of the nurses that a certain man with a whole lot of money had been poking around - but he couldn't help but hope.
"I do. But you need to meet me, soon," the man said, lowering his voice even more. "I don't have much time."
"Of course," Fischer said, already standing up and searching for clothes. "Whenever you want. Just let me know."
"You got a pen and paper?" the man asked him. Fischer quickly turned towards his desk, hands shaking as he searched for something to write with.
Finally finding a pen underneath a stack of papers, he uttered a quick, "Yeah." As the man rattled off an address, Fischer's head spun as it raced with speculations. Who was this man? Did he really know Mr. Charles? And, even more importantly, could he tell Fischer why he kept appearing his dreams - why he was so important to him?
"Get there as soon as you can," the man instructed. "And bring whatever you can. I'm not giving you this for free." Fischer already knew that.
---
The address turned out to be a run down bar in a seedy part of the city that Fischer had never stepped foot on before and never would have imagined himself stepping foot on before today. The exchange with taxi driver was awkward, and Fischer wasn't really sure what was expected of him because it had been so long since he had anyone other than a personal driver take him anywhere. He was extremely glad that in his rush he had thrown on some of his older and decidedly more casual clothes, because what he normally wore would have made him stick out even more than wearing flashing neon sign would have.
The type of men that were here were the type of men who had something that they needed to forget, and they all came here to lose themselves. Fischer stood in the doorway for just a moment before he realized that the ones who weren't completely gone were staring at him, so he squared his shoulders and pressed onwards. He originally planned on sitting down at the bar and waiting to see who joined him, but something else caught his eye.
In the far corner of the room, a man sat in a booth, eyes settled on Fischer. There were no lamps above this booth and the light from the rest of the bar didn't reach there, so it was covered and shadows and Fischer couldn't make out a face - but he knew this was the man he had spoken to on the phone.
As he walked over, he realized his palms were sweaty and, for the first time, that this might not be such a good idea. Fischer thought back to Arthur, whose gaze was always firm and steady and who held himself as if he were in control, Fischer tried his best to emulate the other man - to appear as if he was comfortable in this situation, that he knew what was expected of him in this type of exchange and that he had done it a hundred times before.
When he sat down across from the stranger, he realized he didn't have to be worried. This man was tall and thin, unkempt and looking how Fischer imagined a stray dog that had to scavenge for food would look if it were a human. He sat with his shoulders hunched and his back pressed firmly against the wall, trying desperately to merge with his surroundings and disappear, and his eyes were constantly darting around the room. At first, he refused to acknowledge that Fischer had even joined him at all - he just kept looking around the room, staring hard as faces with a suspicious look before breaking his gaze and finding someone else to inspect. Fischer cleared his throat, hoping for an acknowledgement.
"What do you have for me?" he asked, finally relaxing slightly as he turned to look at Fischer.
"First I want to know I can trust you," Fischer told him. "I need to know I'm getting my money's worth. How can I be sure I can trust you?" Fischer might have been new at this, but he had been in business long enough and it could be just as cut throat and had all the same taught Fischer not to be stupid.
"You're desperate," the stranger said with a half-smile. "You'll take any information you can get 'cause you're not getting any on your own." Fischer narrowed his eyes slightly. "I'm right," the stranger added.
"I'm going to need a little better than that," Fischer said, his voice low and authoritative. Whoever this person was, they weren't the hardened professional that Fischer had suspected. Or, rather, he added, he was no longer a hardened professional. The man's constant casing and paranoia lent itself better to a man that had seen too much and been through too much than a man who wasn't sure what he was doing. Either way, it gave Fischer a chance to make a move for the upper hand.
"You don't need it," the man said. "I'm not telling you anything, per se, not anything you don't know. I'm more, you see..." he trailed off for a moment. "Reminding you. You'll know I'm telling the truth because you're going to remember it."
"What are you talking about?" Fischer asked, agitated by the ambiguity of the stranger's statement.
"Exactly what it sounds like. Everything I'm gonna tell you is already locked up inside that head of yours. You've just forgotten it." He angled his head slightly to the side as Fischer considered his words. "Now, you gonna show me what you have?"
Fischer fumbled for a moment, leaving enough money in his pocket for him to get home before throwing his entire wallet towards the stranger. "This is all I have right now. The wallet is worth five hundred dollars and I've put far more than that inside, in cash," he said, watching as the man pulled out the money to count it. "This information is worth much more to me than that," he told him, knowing that what he was able to get together last minute was not going to be enough. "Consider this the down payment."
However, the stranger waved him off. "It's good enough. I don't have time for any negotiating and waiting for money to show up. I have to disappear, soon, especially since I'm talking to you."
Fischer blinked. "Then why talk to me at all?" he asked, confused.
"Because money is still money," his companion laughed, "and because I have... my own reasons for telling you all this. Let's just say..." he paused, entirely for effect, "I have a score to settle."
"What's your name?" Fischer blurted out, suddenly, and partly because the way the man had talked had said he had score to settle didn't sit right with him at all, and he needed to change the subject.
"Nash," he said. "Just Nash." Fischer nodded, glad to at least have name for the man he was dealing with.
"So," Fischer began, his insides churning with nerves, "what's the information you have?"
Nash leaned back in his seat, hands folded on the table. "The man's name is Dominic Cobb," and already Fischer was surprised, though he shouldn't have been, should have known his name wasn't really Mr. Charles. "He's an extractor."
Fischer knew what that meant, and it felt like his heart had just dropped into his stomach. An extractor. A thief of ideas who enters your dreams.
"He extracted something from me," Fischer said bluntly, his whole mind numb.
"Oh no," Nash said, and Fischer's heart leapt. "He did something much different - much worse to you. He didn't perform extraction - he performed inception."
"Inception? I've never heard of that," Fischer said, his tone accusing.
"That's because it was never done before. Not before you, anyhow. Anyway," he said, continuing his story before explaining the term, "some very, very powerful people found out about your father's failing health pretty early on." This was not news to Fischer; though he and Browning had tried their best to keep word of his father's declining health out of the papers and out of the rumor mill, he knew that there would be those who would find out anyway. His father had too many competitors for it now to. "They were one of your largest competitors - you'll figure out who it was on your own, but there's only so much I feel safe saying out right," he interjected, before continuing, "and they knew that, if daddy's company kept growing, they weren't going to be able to compete.
"So they had to find a way to bring down Fischer-Morrow. And that way was you," Nash said, leaning in to point at Fischer, his finger just inches from his nose.
"I don't understand," Fischer said, cross, ignoring the blatant invasion of space.
"Don't you get it?" Nash said, holding back a laugh but his voice was bursting with it. "They hired a team of extractors not to take information out of your mind - but to put it in."
As Nash said those words, something snapped in Fischer's mind - like he had been trying to remember something for so long, and it had just finally clicked, the connection had been made, and a flood of information came rushing forward, filling his mind. He remembered everything.
"Everything," Fischer breathed, "everything I've become... it's all them."
Nash laughed. "Now you get it," he said with a smile, before waving over a waiter and asking for a drink. Fischer did the same.
---
Cobb has dreamed up enough nightmares, and he is tired of them. He doesn't want to watch this Fischer anymore - this Fischer with sad, broken eyes that stared and accused - and he knows that this is his dream and he doesn't want this anymore, so he will dream of something different like he's always done before.
The two had approached each other would out even realize it when Fischer had spoke, and now they were standing so incredibly close, noses almost touching through the bars and Fischer's breath hot against his cheek. The other man's presence is almost intoxicating, and Cobb finds his senses drowning in him: the pale skin with the light dusting of freckles, the strong curves of his face and the full lips, slightly open as he breathes, and, of course, those eyes that are the brightest and clearest blue and are like looking through a glass and into his soul, his entire self available for anyone observant enough to explore.
So Cobb changes the dream - changes it for the first time since he started to watch his dreams instead of creating them - and pulls Fischer towards him, grabbing him by his expensive tie and brings him that extra inch closer, capturing his lips with his own. Fischer stumbles a bit at first, all of his weight pressed up against Cobb as he eases Fischer against him, backing up slightly so that they're standing clear of the bars and in the center of the cell.
Fischer responds automatically, deepening the kiss with a passion that Cobb wasn't expecting at first but thoroughly enjoys. Cobb winds his fingers through Fischer's dark hair, holding him close, relishing the feel of his body pressed up against him the way he melts beneath his fingertips.
Cobb lets himself indulge, lets himself become completely lost in Fischer so he doesn't have to think about all the ways he's broken him.
---
Fischer stopped trying to dream because he no longer wanted to.
He no longer dreamed of Mr. Charles - or Dominic Cobb - taking away the gun pressed against his head, stopped feeling the overwhelming panic replaced by that intoxicating peace. He dreamed, instead, of men who covered their faces and threatened him with guns, he dreamed of conversations in hotel bars and things like gravity shifts and he dreamed of impossible buildings and hospitals that were fortresses in the snow.
He dreamed of dying and he dreamed of waking up; he dreamed of revelations and he dreamed of pinwheels.
Nash had released the floodgates that opened his mind to everything, and it had flooded his entire consciousness so that Fischer was left to wade through it, soaked in those thoughts and unable to escape from them. So he filled his mind with alcohol instead, as though if he drowned himself in another poison he could wash away the memories completely, wiping his mind clean. It wasn't the type of drinking he had done before where he drank to forget for a while - Fischer drank so he could forget forever.
If he were ever sober he would have noticed with some irony that he had become like the men at the bar where he had met Nash, but Fischer never stopped to think about those things for too long. He drank to get rid of the hangovers and he drank because he was thinking too straight. It could go on for a while, he knew, completely unnoticed because Browning wasn't expecting him back for a little while longer, but eventually he was going to wonder what he was doing holed up in an empty house all day, and then he was going to make Fischer stop.
So Fischer would drink some more so he didn't have to think about that, either.
When the inevitable confrontation came, it was earlier than Fischer expected and it took him completely off guard.
It was much earlier in the morning than he would have liked as well, and he was forced out of his half-awake doze by the blinding light of the sun was the unleashed into the room as the curtains were ripped apart.
"Uncle Peter," he groaned as he cautiously opened one eye, squeezing it shut as the light aggravated his already throbbing head. "What are you - what are you even doing here?"
Browning stood directly in front of the large window, a dark figure amidst the light streaming in. His arms were crossed, and if Fischer could make out his face he would see that the was most definitely not pleased. "Boy," he said, his voice low and controlled, carefully masking a rage that lay beneath it, "we need to talk." He had always started conversations that Fischer did not want to have that way, and he groaned before shoving his face back into his pillows as if he could bury himself beneath them and Browning wouldn't be able to find him.
"Get up," Browning barked. No such luck. He waited a moment, laying completely still on the bed to see what Browning would do. This turned out to be the wrong response, because Browning marched over to the bed and grabbed him by his shirt, yanking him up into a sitting position. "I told you," he said, his voice beginning to break its cool composure, "to get up."
"And I'm up now," Fischer muttered, massaging his forehead, "so all ended well."
"What are you thinking, Robert," Browning snapped, thankfully ignoring the comment. "Are you trying to kill yourself? Because you sure as hell are going to succeed if you keep this up," he said, one hand gesturing towards the empty bottles strewn across his room.
"I'm young, Uncle Peter, and I had one wild night. I don't see why this is such reason for concern," he said, the lie slipping out easily and naturally. "The fact that I feel like a freight train just ran over me is more than enough to stop me from doing it again."
"Don't give me that bullshit, Robert, I know you," Browning retorted quickly, brows furrowing. "When you said you were leaving, I was under the impression it was because you were looking for someone. Not - whatever this is," and he threw his hands in the air to emphasize his point.
"I told you the truth. I was looking for him," Fischer admitted.
"And did you find him?" Browning asked.
"Yes, I did. And you can see for yourself the result of how well that went." Fischer slumped downwards on the bed, letting his body slide further down so he was no longer sitting straight up, but half propped-up by the headboard. "And no, I am not going to talk about it and I know you don't want to hear it, so don't ask."
The anger in Browning's eyes cleared, and the look that he gave Fischer then was completely different. It was pity. "You're lost, Robert," he said quietly.
"I know," Fischer agreed. He didn't have anything else he could say.
Silence fell between them, and for a while Browning just stared at Fischer, who was gazing in front of him intently at nothing. Finally, he told him, "If you die, I'm not going to break apart the company. I'm going to finish what your father started."
Fischer knew why Browning told him that, and he was grateful for it.
---
When Browning left, Fischer realized hours later, he had made sure to take all the alcohol he could find with him. It had taken an enormous amount of self-control, and Fischer wasn't sure for how long he could maintain it, but that night he didn't drink at all. It was the first night since the night he met with Nash that he was able to think with a clear head, and for the first time he was able to reflect on what it all meant.
Fischer dreamed again, and it started out like the old dream: a dizzying sense of being completely overwhelmed and the gun against his head. Fischer trembled slightly as he felt the trigger beneath his finger, smooth and cool as it pressed against his flesh, and he knew that all he had to do was squeeze and this could all be over.
He had by then remembered that he had never actually been on the brink of suicide and that Cobb hadn't actually talked him out anything, really, but in this dream everything was real and Fischer held the gun to his head with the intent of obliterating his entire existence just so he wouldn't have to deal with all the things he was feeling because it was just too much.
This was the point in the old dream where Cobb offered comfort, encouraging Fischer to lower than gun with words, but now none were coming and Cobb was using actions instead. He stepped towards Fischer slowly and cautiously, one hand outstretched hesitantly, not wanting to push Fischer over the edge. When he was close enough to Fischer, Cobb raised his hand to cover the one holding the gun, curling his fingers over Fischer's and slowly lowering their hands down towards Fischer's side.
"Let me help you," Cobb breathed, staring at Fischer with eyes full of earnest. "Let me help you move on."
When Fischer woke up, he thought of his future for the first time since his father died.
---
Arthur hadn't been able to see Cobb for a month when finally he returned to the little hospital. The nurse at the welcome desk smiled at him, telling him, "I haven't seen you in a while!" Arthur just gave her a soft smile in response, noticing that her eyes were darting towards something just beyond his shoulder. When he turned around, he realized what that was.
"It's like deja vu all over again," he said calmly, not wanting to reveal his surprise when he saw Robert Fischer standing no more than a foot in front of him. "I didn't think I would be seeing you again," he commented, and it was said in a way that clearly implies I though I told you I didn't want to be seeing you again.
Fischer let the double meaning roll off of him. This time the tables were turned - this time Fischer knew everything and he knew how he could hurt this man. "I know who you are, Arthur," he said simply.
"I highly doubt that - " Arthur began, but Fischer didn't let him finish.
"Let's talk," he interrupted, guiding Arthur towards the elevator that would take them to where Dominic Cobb dreamed. Once they were on and the doors closed, Fischer added, "I know who John Doe is."
"Do you now," Arthur said, attempting to mask his concern and appear as though he hadn't been ruffled at all by Fischer's words. "I'm glad to hear it. He's been John Doe for so long."
"Not to you," Fischer pointed out. "He's always been Dominic Cobb to you." Arthur snapped his head towards Fischer, his whole body reacting as though fueled by fire, but just as Fischer uttered those words the elevator had come to the second floor and a doctor shuffled into the elevator, offering both of them a polite smile.
It took just a few seconds to get to the third floor, but they seemed to drag on forever as Fischer could feel Arthur seethe next to him. As soon as the doors opened up again, Arthur quickly raced out of the elevator, keeping on eye on Fischer to make sure he was still there. Once the elevator doors closed and a cursory glance revealed they were alone, Arthur grabbed Fischer by his jacket, roughly dragging him into the large room where the coma patients were kept, letting the door swing shut loudly as he slammed Fischer against the wall, one arm pressed against his chest and securing him there.
"What do you know," he barked at Fischer, leaning in so close Fischer thought he could see the fire burning behind his eyes. "What have you found out."
Fischer leaned his head to the side in an attempt to increase the space between the two of them. "Everything," he said, secretly rejoicing at how much calmer he was than Arthur. "I know everything about you - about your team - about what you did."
"And what's that?" Arthur grilled, increasing the pressure he placed against Fischer. He needed to make sure he wasn't bluffing.
"You - you performed inception," Fischer gasped out, startled by how much force Arthur was using. "On me. To make me break up Fischer-Morrow." As soon as she said this, Arthur turned away, releasing Fischer as he paced towards the other side of the room. He ran one hand over his face and placed the other on his side, alternatively walking away from Fischer before swinging around to stare at him again, all the while muttering a few choice words under his breath.
"You want to know how I found out?" he asked Arthur.
"It doesn't matter," he muttered, eyes downcast. "Not that it's going to help now. So what is it?" He stared at Fischer again.
"What is what?" Fischer asked, confused.
"What do you want," Arthur said, exasperated, and Fischer realized he should have picked up on that the first time.
"Oh," he said lamely.
"You obviously want something from me, or you wouldn't have bothered coming. You would have taken care of me before I even knew what was coming," he explained. "So what is it? Why me?"
"I want to go inside his mind," Fischer blurted out. He knew just how strange his request was, and he didn't know how else to ask it, so he simply decided to forgo any traces of subtlety.
"What?" Arthur asked, not quite understanding Fischer. "Whose mind?"
"Cobb's," Fischer told him, thinking it would have been obvious. "I want to go inside his mind."
"Why?" None of this was making sense to Arthur. "Revenge? He's already in a coma if you hadn't noticed. He never woke up because of what he did to you. Isn't that revenge enough?"
"I don't want revenge," Fischer asserted. "I want to..." he trailed off for a moment, and Arthur stared at him expectantly. "I want to wake him up."
Again, Arthur could only ask, "Why?" But, then, he managed to regain his thoughts and added, "That's impossible. Cobb is - he's stuck in limbo."
"I know."
"You don't understand, though, you can't just waltz in there and expect to say, 'Oh, hi, it's time to go back to reality!' Do you even have a clue how this works? He's lost down there, and if you tried to follow him - you don't even know what you're doing, you've never even done this before - you'd get just as lost as he is. Maybe even more," Arthur warned. "You can't do it."
"But you're going to let me try," Fischer said, saying the words as though they were indisputable. "You have no reason not to. You have nothing to lose by doing this. I'll even pay you. But if you don't...." Fischer didn't even need to utter the threat out loud. Arthur understood.
He crossed his arms over his chest, and by his furrowed brows Fischer could tell his mind was racing, turning over the the proposal in his mind, considering it carefully. "I don't like this," he admitted.
"That's a shame." Fischer shrugged. "I'm doing it anyway."
---
In the end, even Arthur had a price that would allow him to lose his reservations. This is not to say he ever felt comfortable with the plan: Fischer could never say he wasn't warned, every single step of the way. But Fischer never second guessed his decision, never once doubted his own resolve. Even as Arthur pressed the IV into his arm one late night, the hospital deathly still as they worked in silence, Fischer did not question what he was about to do. Then, his mind began to slip and there was no turning back, and he offered Arthur one lopsided smile before his eyes closed and he was gone.
---
In Cobb's dream, there was a cell.
It was the kind you see in movies, all cold and unfeeling concrete with a small rusted frame and a thin film of material that was supposed to be a mattress laying on top of it, and it served as a bed. Bars stretched the entire length of the cell, guarding the rest of the world from its occupant and guarding him from them. By appearance the cell stood alone, an island in a sea of nothing tangible but full of memories and thoughts and hopes, ideas that swirled together and created this world. There was just one item to keep the cell company; only one companion in the realm of the physical, sitting just beyond arm's reach from the cell. It was a small, silver top, and it spun and spun and spun and never fell over.
---
Fischer pulls away from Cobb suddenly, and Cobb misses the feel of his body against his, so he pulls him back against him. "Cobb -" Fischer gasps, and he stares at Cobb with wide eyes that are overwhelmed and confused. Hesitantly, Cobb moves forward for another kiss but Fischer moves to the side again.
This isn't supposed to be happening, this isn't how Cobb wants Fischer to behave. For a moment Cobb thinks he's lost control before, when Fischer turns to look at him again and Cobb notices that he's doing all these things he never would have expected, surprising him and defying him - he realizes that Fischer's not a dream at all. "You're real," he breathes, and the knowledge hits him like a ton of bricks. "You're not part of the dream. You're actually here."
Fischer's lips turn upward ever so slightly into the softest of smiles. "I am," he admits.
"Why?" Cobb asks.
"Why am I real?" Fischer returns, eyebrows raised ever so slightly. He knows that's not what Cobb is asking.
"Why did you come here?" Cobb specifies.
"I told you already," Fischer says. "I meant the first thing I said. I still need you." A cool breeze whips through Fischer's hair, displacing it in front of his eyes and he has to sleek it back to see. "I want you to come back with me." The air is heavy with the scent of salt.
"But why - after everything - " It takes Cobb a moment to form his words correctly, his mind so overwhelmed by having Fischer here, not just tangible but real and the longing he has for Cobb is real, too, and so is the need - and Cobb is having a hard time processing everything. "You're right. I destroyed you."
"You destroyed who I was," Fischer corrects. "I'm not that person anymore. It might even be for the better," and as he says these things his voice is insistent. "But I don't know who I am right now. I am empty, and I am lost, and you're the only one who can find me."
"So you found me first," Cobb murmurs, and it's just barely a whisper, nearly drowned out by the sound of crashing waves.
Fischer might not have heard it, because he just stands there gazing at Cobb expectantly. Then, slowly, he moves away, walking backwards as the ocean water laps at his feet and he sinks into the sand. "Leave this place," he urges.
Cobb looks out at the edge of his memories, at the the warm sand beneath him and the ocean that spreads out forever before him. The sun is just beginning to rise, its rays dancing across the sky as it paints the world a soft lavender. The ocean is smooth and glassy where it meets the horizon, and it reflects the colors of the sky above it so perfectly the two appear to be a single identity; the ocean never ends and the sky never ends, and they just open up to a world of soft light that stretches into eternity.
Fischer is leaning down and picking something up, something that Cobb has been looking at for a while but was never able to reach. Wordlessly, he places the silver top in Cobb's hands, curling the man's fingers around it as he encloses Cobb's hands within his own.
Cobb knows what he has to do now, and he lets Fischer lead him towards the horizon. Neither of them ever lets go.
Title; and what do you think happens if you never wake up
Characters; Robert Fischer, Dom Cobb, Arthur
Pairings; Cobb/Robert
Rating; PG-13
Word count; ~10700
NOTES; Prompt was Cobb is still stuck in the dream, he just doesn't know. Robert is out in the real world and has begun dissolving the empire, but there's still something he JUST CAN'T get out of his head. That something being his Mr. Charles. After much searching, he finds the man in a hospital in a coma. Robert figures/finds out he's stuck in his head, and then puts together a team to get Cobb out. Because he is obsessed/it's ~twu wuv~/etc.
There is a cell.
It is the kind you see in movies, all cold and unfeeling concrete with a small rusted frame and a thin film of material that is supposed to be a mattress laying on top of it, and it serves as a bed. Bars stretch the entire length of the cell, guarding the rest of the world from its occupant and guarding him from them. By appearance the cell stands alone, an island in a sea of nothing tangible but full of memories and thoughts and hopes, ideas that swirl together and create this world. There is just one item to keep the cell company; only one companion in the realm of the physical, sitting just beyond arm's reach from the cell. It is a small, silver top, and it spins and spins and spins and never falls over.
Cobb dreams. He dreams of lives, unfolding before him like a film projected on a wall and he watches them between the bars with attentive eyes and a detached mind. He watches his children as they turn and smile at him, as they play in fields and as they learn how to drive. He remembers that he used to be with them, but then he watched them leave him to lead their own lives, and then he watches an empty house because there's nothing left to fill it.
If he tries - if he stops watching his thoughts play out in front of him and reaches within them instead - he will realize that this is how he came here; that he created that world with his children, constructed their destinies and watched them leave and sat in that empty house, alone, so he rewound time and watched it again, and again, and again until before he even knew it he was here, and he stays here with the knowledge that he created this place before him but remains unable to connect with it.
Cobb dreams of more than his children now; he dreams of himself, and his team, and of all the other dreams and the other minds he entered; he watches himself find Arthur and Eames, and remembers losing many more names that he finds himself having a hard time placing. He dreams of dreaming and all the levels he's explored, and the prices he paid to get there.
Sometimes, but only very rarely, he dreams of Mal. It's not the same Mal that he kept locked away in a cage, but a recording of her that he plays back to himself, over and over and over again. Then he remembers that she's not here anymore, and he has to let go, so he stops dreaming of her again and it's a while before he'll revisit her.
Sometimes it occurs to him that he's the one he's locking up in a cage now.
---
Fischer stared down at the empty bottle in his hands. The fact that he couldn't remember what number this one was should have been an indication that he shouldn't reach for another, but he found himself doing precisely that. He never used to be a drinker - he would drink when he was out and was expected to, but he had gotten his wild days out in college and had been ready to move on and leave them behind. Or, that had been the case before his father's death. That was what had changed everything.
Fischer had spent so much of his life yearning for his father's approval, trying to be exactly like him in every way - to be the perfect business man, the one who had his eye on the prize and never looked down as he strove for the top - but Fischer had always suspected, somewhere deep within him in a place that he hid even from himself, that this wasn't the case. He was never going to be his father, and no matter how hard he tried to emulate the man in every way, it was never going to happen. His own shortcomings ever increasingly obvious as his father's health declined and more of the company's responsibilities rested on his shoulders, Fischer had known - was completely, utterly certain - that he had disappointed his father by never living up to his legacy.
But when his father called him up to his death bed, had uttered that one word to him - at first, Fischer thought that he had been right. But then the realization of what his father really meant had hit him like a ton of bricks, and well -
Honestly, Fischer had begun to wish he that he thought his father still hated him. When he first took a step back, and with fresh eyes was able to realize his father never expected him or wanted him to become Maurice Fischer the relief had been indescribable. When Fischer then decided that he was finally going to rid himself of his father's shadow, casting away the weight of trying to be a man he was never able to become, his whole life had been given a new purpose. He was going to dismantle Fischer-Morrow, and he was going to take the ashes and create something new. Something for himself, something that had no traces of his father and was entirely, without doubt, his own creation.
The problems had started when Fischer realized he didn't know who he was. That his entire life, he had invested all of his energy in trying to become Maurice Fischer and he had missed every opportunity to become Robert Fischer instead. He could tear down Fischer-Morrow, strip himself of all of his father's influences, but - then what was he left with? He had thought he was going to discover himself. And I did, he thought bitterly. There's just nothing there.
If not the heir to Fischer-Morrow, what was he? After an entire life of identifying with his father, the company - and now he had nothing to draw from, nothing to point to when he thought There, that's me. For the first time in his life he was being forced to truly look within himself, and if Fischer were being perfectly honest, he would rather look within a bottle of alcohol.
When Fischer drank, it didn't seem so important anymore that he didn't know who he was or what he was going to do with himself. It didn't matter that he had just secured another buyer for another parcel of Fischer-Morrow and he was that much closer to losing the only safety net he had known in his life. It didn't matter that he didn't have a plan for the next ten years, five years, hell, even the next year. And it definitely didn't matter that none of this mattered to anyone else.
With his mind sluggish and all this thoughts fogged, like a landscape viewed through the gauzy film of thin curtains early in the morning, Fischer could stop caring about anything at all.
There was only one thing that kept Fischer from drinking his problems away until he had drunk everything away, and that was his dreams. Even more than he looked forward to forgetting himself in a bottle of wine, Fischer looked forward to finding someone else while he slept.
It was his own private comfort, a secret sanctuary that no one knew about and no one could touch. It was indulgent and fantastic and it sometimes made him feel like a teenage girl with a dirty little secret on some trite cable television show, and it was exactly the type of the thing that would make psychologists around the world go crazy. But it was the only thing that made him feel real, so Fischer held onto it, keeping it hidden away and near to his heart.
Whenever Fischer closed his eyes, his mind always went to the same place and the same person and the same experience, and it was identical each and every night.
During the day, Fischer could only remember bits and pieces and flashes of the dream, but after so many nights of always dreaming the same dream he was able to collect enough shards of memory to piece them together, creating a mosaic of emotions and memories that, when viewed from afar, revealed the entire picture.
It begins with tiled walls and mirrors and sinks, and Fischer suspected that it must be a public restroom somewhere, but more importantly it begins with a sharp sense of panic and confusion and adrenaline all rolled into one, and it is just so incredibly overwhelming and so it always begins with Fischer on the absolute brink of insanity.
He could recall the feel of the cool metal of the barrel of a gun pressed up against his head, and for a while when he could barely remember anything at all he thought that it was someone trying to kill him. He knew now that the was the one who holds the gun, finger on the trigger and ready to squeeze. Ready to fall off the edge.
It's then that Fischer realizes that he isn't alone, that there's another man there with him. He is the same age as Fischer, with dark blonde hair slicked back against his head and eyes that are wide with fear. He is staring at Fischer, and at this point, he says something but Fischer can never remember what exactly it is. Whatever the exact words were didn't matter to Fischer, because the thing that stuck with him most - the thing that made him cling to this dream and keep returning to it, turning it over in his mind again and again - is the feeling that hangs between the two of them then, the moment where the other man's eyes just bare into Fischer and Fischer knows he can trust him - knows that this man was going to take care of him and that he isn't going to be on the edge anymore.
The absolute calm that washes over him at this point, relaxing every tendon in his body and easing the arm holding the gun down next to his side, is the most beautiful thing ever, and it was a calm that Fischer had never before experienced when awake.
There are two things that Fischer could always hold onto after he woke up, that remained in his mind so sharp and clear it almost felt like it was piercing his conscious mind: the man's face and the man's name. He called himself Mr. Charles.
---
Cobb finally dreams of something more than just memories on a wall, and it takes him off guard when it happens. He didn't expect this and he certainly would not have guessed that it would be him that he brings to life, him that his mind turns into something tangible - something he can touch and feel and interact with.
But it's Robert Fischer who's standing outside of his cell, in between him and the top that never falls over, and he stands there so still that for a moment Cobb doesn't even realize that he's not just another memory being played out like a broken record. But then he says his name, so soft it's barely more than a whisper. "Dom Cobb," he breathes, and it sounds natural rolling off of his tongue. Cobb doesn't react at first for no other reason than the fact that he's forgotten how to react, forgotten how to be more than just a passive observer. It's been so long since he's used his voice, it is startling to hear it ringing in his ears and to feel it vibrating in his throat.
"Robert Fischer." He's not sure what he should say, because he's not sure why he's there.
The other man doesn't seem to know what to say either, and Cobb supposes that it only makes sense that the rest of his subconscious is as awkward and clumsy at this as he is. So Fischer just cocks his head slightly to the side, never letting his clear blue eyes break contact with Cobb's.
"Why are you here?" Cobb asks him. It feels like the right question to ask, though he doesn't expect an answer.
"I've been looking for you," Fischer tells him.
"What for?" If they keep this up, they can get an easy ebb and flow going, and Cobb is growing more confidant and slowly regaining his own self-awareness. He rises up from the bed, walking over to where Fischer stands, the two equidistant from the bars separating them.
When Fischer whispers "I need you," Cobb suddenly understands why his mind chose him.
---
Fischer was eating dinner with Browning when he made the decision. The dining room was large and filled with decorations and furnishings worth more than most people would see in their lifetimes, but it lacked anything that carried with it a value that actually meant something to Fischer, and the atmosphere was devoid of the emotion and comforts that filled the kitchen tables of families that lived with and loved one another. His chef was the best that money could buy, but all the food tasted bland in his mouth and Fischer realized he couldn't stomach any more of it.
A heavy silence had descended upon the two diners, so when Fischer slammed his fork down onto the table the sound reverberated through the air with such force that, to the two men, it could have been the shot heard 'round the world. Browning glanced upwards from his food momentarily, but as the younger of the two suspected, remained completely silent. Fischer placed his palms down on the table, staring at Browning as he ate, waiting for him to question him or offer a remark - any remark - on his strange behavior. It didn't come, so Fischer announced instead, "I'm leaving."
This captured his god father's interest, who, raising his eyes to meet Fischer's, slowly tore the napkin out of his shirt, placing it down on the table as he stared expectantly at the younger man. "Leaving to where?" he asked, forming the words as lightheartedly as if they were talking about the weather.
"I don't know," Fischer admitted lamely. "I need to look for someone."
"Ah," Browning said, in a voice that seemed to convey that he already knew what this was all about, and he was merely humoring Fischer. The younger man narrowed his eyes. Realizing he was expected to add something else, Browning asked noncommittally, "And just who exactly are you looking for?"
"A man," Fischer said.
"Well, that shouldn't be too hard," his godfather replied with a shrug. "You just make sure to keep it under wraps." Then, as though he had just narrowly escaped a rather long conversation that would include sharing and feelings, he continued to eat his dinner.
"Uncle Peter -" Fischer sighed, exasperated. "Why did you even - no, never mind." They could have that conversation later. Fischer had more important things he wanted to discuss, and he needed to get them out now. It wouldn't take long. "I'm looking for a specific man. A man who goes by the name Mr. Charles."
"And where did you meet this Mr. Charles?" Browning asked, but Fischer could tell he had already tuned out of the conversation.
"I've never met him," Fischer admitted, leaning back in his chair, letting his head tilt backwards. The movement should have been a natural one, but the tension in the room was so stifling that it came across only as awkward and out of place and Fischer quickly righted himself, sitting up with his back straight once again. "Look - Uncle Peter, it doesn't matter," Fischer said bitterly, adding only to himself, I don't even know if he exists. I think I saw him on an airplane for a moment but I don't even know if that happened. "I just wanted to let you know that I want you to look after the company in my absence." With that, Fischer stood up from his chair, staring down at Browning as he waited for his reply.
Browning didn't say anything to that, just kept on eating without even looking at Fischer a second time. Browning cared about Fischer; he wasn't going to say anything to him that would hurt. But he also wasn't going to lie, or say words that he didn't quite mean. It had always been one of the traits that Fischer admired most in his godfather.
I will do a better job than you, anyway.
If Fischer were ever asked about what prompted his decision and the subsequent declaration that night, he would reply it was because he didn't like the food.
---
As it so happened to turn out, there were quite a lot of Mr. Charles's in the world. Fischer wasn't deterred.
---
It had been the natural decision, Fischer knew, because it was his only possible lead. The woman looked at him kindly as she kept her hand raised over the pad of paper, the pencil gripped lightly in long fingers as she waited for a response. Fischer froze. He knew Mr. Charles's face better than he knew his own, and he would have been able to pick the man out of a crowd of thousands.
Fischer panicked, slightly, feeling the stare of the sketch artist bearing down on him. She thinks I'm crazy, the thought to himself I would think I'm crazy if I were here. His mouth was open slightly, and he realized, suddenly, he didn't have a damn clue how to describe Mr. Charles. He could picture him clearly in his mind's eye - see every detail on the other man's face - but it was mixed together with his own emotions and he didn't think that telling the sketch artist that this man had eyes that were calm and steady and able to draw away all the turmoil inside of Fischer's body was going to work.
This realization caused a panic to flare up, curling within his gut, and he instinctively clutched his hands in fear. He had to remember, had to be able to to make this work because this was the only only thing he had of Mr. Charles, only memory he could cling to in the daylight hours, and the perfect clarity in which Fischer saw Mr. Charles was the single reason he thought he might be real at all, and if he didn't really have this at all, then he had nothing. His mind raced, but it felt like wheels spinning in mud and he wasn't going anywhere but he was kicking up a lot of dirt and a lot of worry.
The woman continued to stare at him, with all the patience in the world, and had Fischer had been in her place, he would have been much more agitated than she was. "Just relax," she suggested gently. "It can be hard, I understand, to try to translate what you see in your mind into words."
Fischer just nodded, mutely. She was exactly right.
"I'm going to guide you through the process," she told him, offering a reassuring smile. "You don't have to worry. This isn't like television - not everyone can sit down and reel off a perfectly accurate description without prompting." Fischer continued to nod at her words. "Just close your eyes for me, Mr. Fischer," and he quickly followed her instructions. "Hold the picture of his face in your head, and just focus on that for me, alright?" He could do that, Fischer told himself. He could do that.
She began to ask questions, simple and easy to answer, and he could hear the the scratch of pencil against paper. He was able to answer all of them quickly, and every now and then she would ask him to look and see if this was quite right or if she should change that, and Fischer knew instantly if it were correct or not.
He just held onto that picture of Mr. Charles, held onto it with all the concentration in the world, and if he kept concentrating on Mr. Charles then maybe, maybe he could bring back that calm that always came with the man.
---
The words are beautiful to Cobb, and even more beautiful because they're being spoken to him, and it's been so long since anything was spoken to him at all.
"I need you because you broke me," and now the words are like a knife to his chest.
"What - " Cobb begins to ask, but Fischer isn't waiting for him to respond, doesn't even take notice of the fact that Cobb's eyes have widened and his mouth is ajar, and he begins to twist the knife.
"You took away the only thing I had - stripped me of the only thing that gave me an identity and then you left me to pick up the pieces when there wasn't anything I could even pick up. And you made this, Cobb. You made me." There's anger that flashes in his eyes, and Cobb wants to take a step back but those eyes have hypnotized him and he can't move at all.
"This is everything I am now - a man without substance, a man without a purpose, a man without an identity, a man without a future - and even worse," his eyes narrow, "and even worse I'm a man without free will."
Cobb wants to same something, wants to protest but there's nothing there for him to say, nothing that he can say because Fischer is right - right because he had found every fear Cobb had held, vocalized everything that Cobb had hoped wouldn't come true for him.
Fischer stops talking then, and lets himself stare at Cobb, and Cobb realizes that any anger that had been held within those eyes has vanished. They're clear and Cobb can see right through them, and he sees that Fischer is open and hurting and vulnerable.
And it was Cobb who put all of those emotions - all of those feelings - in Fischer's mind.
---
It didn't take long for Fischer to get a hit on the sketch he had made, and while he was surprised, he also knew that was what money and connections could afford him.
When a small hospital just outside of L.A. had come forward, telling him that they had a John Doe in their care that had matched the sketch perfectly, Fischer didn't know whether it was extreme luck that he had found Mr. Charles so close to him, or fate playing a sick, twisted joke on because this was how he found him.
He had been so worried that Mr. Charles didn't actually exist, or if he did, he would never find him; but now that he had found Mr. Charles, Fischer wasn't sure if it wouldn't have been best if he hadn't. He had found him in the bleakest hospital that could possibly have existed in the entire country, and when Fischer saw the real Mr. Charles for the first time, he was just one of several bodies that lay on metal beds with humming machines, against walls with peeling gray paint.
The nurse that had brought him here looked at Fischer cautiously, still not sure of the strange man that had carried with him an air of authority and demanded to see a man forgotten by everyone including himself. "Do you know him?" she had asked Fischer kindly when he first made the request, but Fischer had wordlessly shook his head. In truth, Fischer hadn't wanted to say that he didn't know Mr. Charles - didn't want to admit aloud that he had no clue who this man was and that he might not be the man Fischer thought he was at all.
When Fischer had seen the man that the hospital had told him was his Mr. Charles, his heart nearly stopped. The face unnaturally still, eyes closed and unresponsive, he knew instinctively it was the same face but it seemed more like a replica of the man in his dreams - a wax figurine that could never capture the warmth and emotion that a real person held. His insides churned.
He must have allowed something to reveal itself on his face, despite the fact he had wanted to keep it completely devoid of expression, because the nurse placed one hand on his shoulder in what he knew was her attempt to be comforting. "Would you like some time with him?" she asked softly. "I can get a chair."
Fischer moved away from the contact. "No," he said, the word much stronger and harsher than he had originally intended, "no, I don't want to sit with him." Then he turned away from the John Doe on the bed, because, like that, he was just John Doe - and Fischer didn't want to see him when he wasn't Mr. Charles. Couldn't see him when he wasn't Mr. Charles.
"But I do have some questions." The nurse nodded silently, taken aback, before scurrying after him as he left the room without looking back.
---
The chairs in the hospital cafeteria were cheap and plastic and curved in a way that forced Fischer's back into an awkward position. He grimaced, trying to find a more comfortable position, but it was impossible to find.
After his first time here - his first time seeing Mr. Charles and the last time since then - Fischer had questioned the nurses, trying to squeeze every drop of information that he could. He had realized quickly that the nurses knew something that they weren't telling him, and Fischer hadn't wanted to open his wallet for them but it had seemed likely that it would come to that.
But then the nurse who had taken him to see Mr. Charles had led him away, eyes darting anxiously before whispering to him, "There's another man. Who comes and visits him."
"Someone who knows him?" Fischer asked, surprised. "Then why hasn't he been identified?"
"He claims he doesn't," the nurse said. "But everyone knows he does. It's obvious. He comes here every week at the same time, though sometimes he'll miss a week or two, and he goes up there and just - talks to him."
"About what?" Fischer pried.
The nurse simply shrugged. "I don't know. He doesn't speak loud enough for us to here from the doorway, and he won't say anything if we're in the room with him. But I bet you - if you want to find out anything about your John Doe up there, this man is the one who can tell you."
So Fischer came back and waited for this man, sitting in the cafeteria with a cup of coffee that tasted horrible hot and even worse icy cold. The nurse had promised she would let him know when the mystery guest arrived, and Fischer kept one careful eye trained on her as he waited for a signal.
He was just about to give up when the nurse looked up from what she was doing and locked eyes with Fischer, jerking her head towards a man signing in at the front desk.
Suddenly, Fischer felt insides clench; he was nervous, but the feeling was strange to him because he couldn't place why. Trying to keep his gait cool and collected, Fischer walked towards the man using every once of self-restraint not to break into a run to get to him, to reach him before he walked away.
Fischer just managed to block his path as he turned away from the desk. "Hello," he said, realizing that he was far too close to his other man, but not caring that he was intruding. He couldn't let him sneak away. The man's eyes widened when he saw Fischer, and he instantly jumped back, looking at him with what Fischer knew was recognition. He felt his heart leap at this; if this man knew Fischer - then, it was a link, a real, tangible link between himself and Mr. Charles. The first sign that he might not be crazy.
"Let's talk," Fischer told him, and the man gazed at him with narrowed eyes and Fischer could tell his mind was racing as he tried to figure out what his next move should be. But then his body relaxed, and he conceded to Fischer. "Alright," he said, allowing Fischer to lead him back to the cafeteria, all the while his eyes casing their surroundings.
"What's your name?" Fischer asked as he sat back down at his table, the coffee he never finished drinking exactly where he had left it. "It's not really David Collins, is it?" he stated, referring to the name the man had written down on the sign-in sheet.
"It's Arthur," the man told him, and it was said with such a tone of finality that Fischer didn't even bother asking him for his last name. He knew that was all of the information he was going to get the man to give about himself. It didn't matter. Fischer didn't care about who Arthur was - he cared about Mr. Charles, or John Doe, or whoever the man sleeping in the hospital bed three floors above them was.
"Who is he?" Fischer asked, using the type of voice he normally reserved for dealing with the people who worked under him, the type of voice that made things get done, the type of voice that didn't allow the reply of, Who are you talking about? Arthur wasn't the only one who could play that game.
"I don't know," Arthur said, his voice unerringly even. Cold. Professional. "If I did know who he was, he wouldn't still be John Doe."
"That's bullshit," Fischer spat. "Do not sit there and look me in the eye and try to sell me that, because, honestly, it's embarrassing. Do you really think I'm going to believe that? You underestimate me, Arthur," he said, emphasizing the other man's name. "I've had to see through much, much better lies than this in my line of business."
"I'm sure you're quite good at it, too, Mr. Fischer," Arthur said calmly, not rising to Fischer's bait, "but I'm telling you the truth." He paused for a moment, and seeing that Fischer was not about to give up, continued. "You seem to be putting a lot of effort into get yourself into something that has nothing to do with you," he remarked.
"I assure you," Fischer said, "it has everything to do with me." If this Arthur genuinely believed that, Fischer added to himself mentally, then he obviously couldn't know as much as he thought.
"No," Arthur returned quickly. "It doesn't. You're a business man, Mr. Fischer, and whatever this is doesn't have a damn thing to do with your kind of business - let alone the energy business."
"Don't pay attention to the news much, do you?" Fischer asked lightly. "I'm not going to be a business man for much longer."
"Then make sure you get to see that day," Arthur said harshly, and it was the closest thing to a threat that he had uttered. Fischer knew this was the point where he should back off, but it merely spurred him forward. If Arthur had reason to threaten him, then it meant that there was something he didn't want him to find out - that there was something to find out at all. "Just focus on your company, keep moving forward with your plans," he said, never explaining which plans he meant, but he didn't have to because Fischer was perfectly aware what he was referring to, "and stop trying to interfere with things that are far, far removed from your world. Go back to your own life, Mr. Fischer," he urged, leaning forward slightly as he spoke this.
Go back to your own life. Fischer opened his mouth to say something, but he couldn't shake those words off. They sat in his mind, heavy and weighing on his brain. Go back to your own life. "I don't have one," Fischer admitted after some time, his voice soft. "I don't have anything to go back to." He didn't know why he was telling Arthur this - didn't know why he was revealing so much of himself to this stranger.
Arthur didn't respond. He just stood up, the motion swift and fluid and possessing more grace in that single movement that Fischer would in his entire life, staring down at Fischer just one second too long before turning his back on him and walking away. Fischer didn't go after him, just watched as one moment Arthur's retreating back filled his sight and the next he was gone, disappearing into the fold as he resumed his place amongst the shadows.
Fischer had seen something flash in his eyes in that second - something that had looked a lot like sadness and a little like guilt. He didn't know what to make of that.
---
It was just a week after that encounter when Fischer was ripped out of slumber by the ringing of his cellphone. He flipped it open groggily, pressing it against his ear as he desperately tried to wipe the sleep out of his eyes and clear his mind. "Hello?" he asked, his voice not quite ready to be used just yet.
"Robert Fischer?" a voice asked, quiet and hushed, and the sounds of people talking and laughing were heard so loudly in the background Fischer very nearly couldn't hear the stranger on the other end.
"You're talking to him," he said, pulling his body up into a sitting position with effort. "Who is this?" he asked, annoyed.
"You want information," the stranger continued, ignoring Fischer's question. "Information on a certain John Doe." This sentence snapped Fischer's mind into attention, instantly shattering any remnants of sleep that still clung to him.
"And you have it?" he asked, gripping the side of the bed. He knew this man probably had nothing - had heard from one of the nurses that a certain man with a whole lot of money had been poking around - but he couldn't help but hope.
"I do. But you need to meet me, soon," the man said, lowering his voice even more. "I don't have much time."
"Of course," Fischer said, already standing up and searching for clothes. "Whenever you want. Just let me know."
"You got a pen and paper?" the man asked him. Fischer quickly turned towards his desk, hands shaking as he searched for something to write with.
Finally finding a pen underneath a stack of papers, he uttered a quick, "Yeah." As the man rattled off an address, Fischer's head spun as it raced with speculations. Who was this man? Did he really know Mr. Charles? And, even more importantly, could he tell Fischer why he kept appearing his dreams - why he was so important to him?
"Get there as soon as you can," the man instructed. "And bring whatever you can. I'm not giving you this for free." Fischer already knew that.
---
The address turned out to be a run down bar in a seedy part of the city that Fischer had never stepped foot on before and never would have imagined himself stepping foot on before today. The exchange with taxi driver was awkward, and Fischer wasn't really sure what was expected of him because it had been so long since he had anyone other than a personal driver take him anywhere. He was extremely glad that in his rush he had thrown on some of his older and decidedly more casual clothes, because what he normally wore would have made him stick out even more than wearing flashing neon sign would have.
The type of men that were here were the type of men who had something that they needed to forget, and they all came here to lose themselves. Fischer stood in the doorway for just a moment before he realized that the ones who weren't completely gone were staring at him, so he squared his shoulders and pressed onwards. He originally planned on sitting down at the bar and waiting to see who joined him, but something else caught his eye.
In the far corner of the room, a man sat in a booth, eyes settled on Fischer. There were no lamps above this booth and the light from the rest of the bar didn't reach there, so it was covered and shadows and Fischer couldn't make out a face - but he knew this was the man he had spoken to on the phone.
As he walked over, he realized his palms were sweaty and, for the first time, that this might not be such a good idea. Fischer thought back to Arthur, whose gaze was always firm and steady and who held himself as if he were in control, Fischer tried his best to emulate the other man - to appear as if he was comfortable in this situation, that he knew what was expected of him in this type of exchange and that he had done it a hundred times before.
When he sat down across from the stranger, he realized he didn't have to be worried. This man was tall and thin, unkempt and looking how Fischer imagined a stray dog that had to scavenge for food would look if it were a human. He sat with his shoulders hunched and his back pressed firmly against the wall, trying desperately to merge with his surroundings and disappear, and his eyes were constantly darting around the room. At first, he refused to acknowledge that Fischer had even joined him at all - he just kept looking around the room, staring hard as faces with a suspicious look before breaking his gaze and finding someone else to inspect. Fischer cleared his throat, hoping for an acknowledgement.
"What do you have for me?" he asked, finally relaxing slightly as he turned to look at Fischer.
"First I want to know I can trust you," Fischer told him. "I need to know I'm getting my money's worth. How can I be sure I can trust you?" Fischer might have been new at this, but he had been in business long enough and it could be just as cut throat and had all the same taught Fischer not to be stupid.
"You're desperate," the stranger said with a half-smile. "You'll take any information you can get 'cause you're not getting any on your own." Fischer narrowed his eyes slightly. "I'm right," the stranger added.
"I'm going to need a little better than that," Fischer said, his voice low and authoritative. Whoever this person was, they weren't the hardened professional that Fischer had suspected. Or, rather, he added, he was no longer a hardened professional. The man's constant casing and paranoia lent itself better to a man that had seen too much and been through too much than a man who wasn't sure what he was doing. Either way, it gave Fischer a chance to make a move for the upper hand.
"You don't need it," the man said. "I'm not telling you anything, per se, not anything you don't know. I'm more, you see..." he trailed off for a moment. "Reminding you. You'll know I'm telling the truth because you're going to remember it."
"What are you talking about?" Fischer asked, agitated by the ambiguity of the stranger's statement.
"Exactly what it sounds like. Everything I'm gonna tell you is already locked up inside that head of yours. You've just forgotten it." He angled his head slightly to the side as Fischer considered his words. "Now, you gonna show me what you have?"
Fischer fumbled for a moment, leaving enough money in his pocket for him to get home before throwing his entire wallet towards the stranger. "This is all I have right now. The wallet is worth five hundred dollars and I've put far more than that inside, in cash," he said, watching as the man pulled out the money to count it. "This information is worth much more to me than that," he told him, knowing that what he was able to get together last minute was not going to be enough. "Consider this the down payment."
However, the stranger waved him off. "It's good enough. I don't have time for any negotiating and waiting for money to show up. I have to disappear, soon, especially since I'm talking to you."
Fischer blinked. "Then why talk to me at all?" he asked, confused.
"Because money is still money," his companion laughed, "and because I have... my own reasons for telling you all this. Let's just say..." he paused, entirely for effect, "I have a score to settle."
"What's your name?" Fischer blurted out, suddenly, and partly because the way the man had talked had said he had score to settle didn't sit right with him at all, and he needed to change the subject.
"Nash," he said. "Just Nash." Fischer nodded, glad to at least have name for the man he was dealing with.
"So," Fischer began, his insides churning with nerves, "what's the information you have?"
Nash leaned back in his seat, hands folded on the table. "The man's name is Dominic Cobb," and already Fischer was surprised, though he shouldn't have been, should have known his name wasn't really Mr. Charles. "He's an extractor."
Fischer knew what that meant, and it felt like his heart had just dropped into his stomach. An extractor. A thief of ideas who enters your dreams.
"He extracted something from me," Fischer said bluntly, his whole mind numb.
"Oh no," Nash said, and Fischer's heart leapt. "He did something much different - much worse to you. He didn't perform extraction - he performed inception."
"Inception? I've never heard of that," Fischer said, his tone accusing.
"That's because it was never done before. Not before you, anyhow. Anyway," he said, continuing his story before explaining the term, "some very, very powerful people found out about your father's failing health pretty early on." This was not news to Fischer; though he and Browning had tried their best to keep word of his father's declining health out of the papers and out of the rumor mill, he knew that there would be those who would find out anyway. His father had too many competitors for it now to. "They were one of your largest competitors - you'll figure out who it was on your own, but there's only so much I feel safe saying out right," he interjected, before continuing, "and they knew that, if daddy's company kept growing, they weren't going to be able to compete.
"So they had to find a way to bring down Fischer-Morrow. And that way was you," Nash said, leaning in to point at Fischer, his finger just inches from his nose.
"I don't understand," Fischer said, cross, ignoring the blatant invasion of space.
"Don't you get it?" Nash said, holding back a laugh but his voice was bursting with it. "They hired a team of extractors not to take information out of your mind - but to put it in."
As Nash said those words, something snapped in Fischer's mind - like he had been trying to remember something for so long, and it had just finally clicked, the connection had been made, and a flood of information came rushing forward, filling his mind. He remembered everything.
"Everything," Fischer breathed, "everything I've become... it's all them."
Nash laughed. "Now you get it," he said with a smile, before waving over a waiter and asking for a drink. Fischer did the same.
---
Cobb has dreamed up enough nightmares, and he is tired of them. He doesn't want to watch this Fischer anymore - this Fischer with sad, broken eyes that stared and accused - and he knows that this is his dream and he doesn't want this anymore, so he will dream of something different like he's always done before.
The two had approached each other would out even realize it when Fischer had spoke, and now they were standing so incredibly close, noses almost touching through the bars and Fischer's breath hot against his cheek. The other man's presence is almost intoxicating, and Cobb finds his senses drowning in him: the pale skin with the light dusting of freckles, the strong curves of his face and the full lips, slightly open as he breathes, and, of course, those eyes that are the brightest and clearest blue and are like looking through a glass and into his soul, his entire self available for anyone observant enough to explore.
So Cobb changes the dream - changes it for the first time since he started to watch his dreams instead of creating them - and pulls Fischer towards him, grabbing him by his expensive tie and brings him that extra inch closer, capturing his lips with his own. Fischer stumbles a bit at first, all of his weight pressed up against Cobb as he eases Fischer against him, backing up slightly so that they're standing clear of the bars and in the center of the cell.
Fischer responds automatically, deepening the kiss with a passion that Cobb wasn't expecting at first but thoroughly enjoys. Cobb winds his fingers through Fischer's dark hair, holding him close, relishing the feel of his body pressed up against him the way he melts beneath his fingertips.
Cobb lets himself indulge, lets himself become completely lost in Fischer so he doesn't have to think about all the ways he's broken him.
---
Fischer stopped trying to dream because he no longer wanted to.
He no longer dreamed of Mr. Charles - or Dominic Cobb - taking away the gun pressed against his head, stopped feeling the overwhelming panic replaced by that intoxicating peace. He dreamed, instead, of men who covered their faces and threatened him with guns, he dreamed of conversations in hotel bars and things like gravity shifts and he dreamed of impossible buildings and hospitals that were fortresses in the snow.
He dreamed of dying and he dreamed of waking up; he dreamed of revelations and he dreamed of pinwheels.
Nash had released the floodgates that opened his mind to everything, and it had flooded his entire consciousness so that Fischer was left to wade through it, soaked in those thoughts and unable to escape from them. So he filled his mind with alcohol instead, as though if he drowned himself in another poison he could wash away the memories completely, wiping his mind clean. It wasn't the type of drinking he had done before where he drank to forget for a while - Fischer drank so he could forget forever.
If he were ever sober he would have noticed with some irony that he had become like the men at the bar where he had met Nash, but Fischer never stopped to think about those things for too long. He drank to get rid of the hangovers and he drank because he was thinking too straight. It could go on for a while, he knew, completely unnoticed because Browning wasn't expecting him back for a little while longer, but eventually he was going to wonder what he was doing holed up in an empty house all day, and then he was going to make Fischer stop.
So Fischer would drink some more so he didn't have to think about that, either.
When the inevitable confrontation came, it was earlier than Fischer expected and it took him completely off guard.
It was much earlier in the morning than he would have liked as well, and he was forced out of his half-awake doze by the blinding light of the sun was the unleashed into the room as the curtains were ripped apart.
"Uncle Peter," he groaned as he cautiously opened one eye, squeezing it shut as the light aggravated his already throbbing head. "What are you - what are you even doing here?"
Browning stood directly in front of the large window, a dark figure amidst the light streaming in. His arms were crossed, and if Fischer could make out his face he would see that the was most definitely not pleased. "Boy," he said, his voice low and controlled, carefully masking a rage that lay beneath it, "we need to talk." He had always started conversations that Fischer did not want to have that way, and he groaned before shoving his face back into his pillows as if he could bury himself beneath them and Browning wouldn't be able to find him.
"Get up," Browning barked. No such luck. He waited a moment, laying completely still on the bed to see what Browning would do. This turned out to be the wrong response, because Browning marched over to the bed and grabbed him by his shirt, yanking him up into a sitting position. "I told you," he said, his voice beginning to break its cool composure, "to get up."
"And I'm up now," Fischer muttered, massaging his forehead, "so all ended well."
"What are you thinking, Robert," Browning snapped, thankfully ignoring the comment. "Are you trying to kill yourself? Because you sure as hell are going to succeed if you keep this up," he said, one hand gesturing towards the empty bottles strewn across his room.
"I'm young, Uncle Peter, and I had one wild night. I don't see why this is such reason for concern," he said, the lie slipping out easily and naturally. "The fact that I feel like a freight train just ran over me is more than enough to stop me from doing it again."
"Don't give me that bullshit, Robert, I know you," Browning retorted quickly, brows furrowing. "When you said you were leaving, I was under the impression it was because you were looking for someone. Not - whatever this is," and he threw his hands in the air to emphasize his point.
"I told you the truth. I was looking for him," Fischer admitted.
"And did you find him?" Browning asked.
"Yes, I did. And you can see for yourself the result of how well that went." Fischer slumped downwards on the bed, letting his body slide further down so he was no longer sitting straight up, but half propped-up by the headboard. "And no, I am not going to talk about it and I know you don't want to hear it, so don't ask."
The anger in Browning's eyes cleared, and the look that he gave Fischer then was completely different. It was pity. "You're lost, Robert," he said quietly.
"I know," Fischer agreed. He didn't have anything else he could say.
Silence fell between them, and for a while Browning just stared at Fischer, who was gazing in front of him intently at nothing. Finally, he told him, "If you die, I'm not going to break apart the company. I'm going to finish what your father started."
Fischer knew why Browning told him that, and he was grateful for it.
---
When Browning left, Fischer realized hours later, he had made sure to take all the alcohol he could find with him. It had taken an enormous amount of self-control, and Fischer wasn't sure for how long he could maintain it, but that night he didn't drink at all. It was the first night since the night he met with Nash that he was able to think with a clear head, and for the first time he was able to reflect on what it all meant.
Fischer dreamed again, and it started out like the old dream: a dizzying sense of being completely overwhelmed and the gun against his head. Fischer trembled slightly as he felt the trigger beneath his finger, smooth and cool as it pressed against his flesh, and he knew that all he had to do was squeeze and this could all be over.
He had by then remembered that he had never actually been on the brink of suicide and that Cobb hadn't actually talked him out anything, really, but in this dream everything was real and Fischer held the gun to his head with the intent of obliterating his entire existence just so he wouldn't have to deal with all the things he was feeling because it was just too much.
This was the point in the old dream where Cobb offered comfort, encouraging Fischer to lower than gun with words, but now none were coming and Cobb was using actions instead. He stepped towards Fischer slowly and cautiously, one hand outstretched hesitantly, not wanting to push Fischer over the edge. When he was close enough to Fischer, Cobb raised his hand to cover the one holding the gun, curling his fingers over Fischer's and slowly lowering their hands down towards Fischer's side.
"Let me help you," Cobb breathed, staring at Fischer with eyes full of earnest. "Let me help you move on."
When Fischer woke up, he thought of his future for the first time since his father died.
---
Arthur hadn't been able to see Cobb for a month when finally he returned to the little hospital. The nurse at the welcome desk smiled at him, telling him, "I haven't seen you in a while!" Arthur just gave her a soft smile in response, noticing that her eyes were darting towards something just beyond his shoulder. When he turned around, he realized what that was.
"It's like deja vu all over again," he said calmly, not wanting to reveal his surprise when he saw Robert Fischer standing no more than a foot in front of him. "I didn't think I would be seeing you again," he commented, and it was said in a way that clearly implies I though I told you I didn't want to be seeing you again.
Fischer let the double meaning roll off of him. This time the tables were turned - this time Fischer knew everything and he knew how he could hurt this man. "I know who you are, Arthur," he said simply.
"I highly doubt that - " Arthur began, but Fischer didn't let him finish.
"Let's talk," he interrupted, guiding Arthur towards the elevator that would take them to where Dominic Cobb dreamed. Once they were on and the doors closed, Fischer added, "I know who John Doe is."
"Do you now," Arthur said, attempting to mask his concern and appear as though he hadn't been ruffled at all by Fischer's words. "I'm glad to hear it. He's been John Doe for so long."
"Not to you," Fischer pointed out. "He's always been Dominic Cobb to you." Arthur snapped his head towards Fischer, his whole body reacting as though fueled by fire, but just as Fischer uttered those words the elevator had come to the second floor and a doctor shuffled into the elevator, offering both of them a polite smile.
It took just a few seconds to get to the third floor, but they seemed to drag on forever as Fischer could feel Arthur seethe next to him. As soon as the doors opened up again, Arthur quickly raced out of the elevator, keeping on eye on Fischer to make sure he was still there. Once the elevator doors closed and a cursory glance revealed they were alone, Arthur grabbed Fischer by his jacket, roughly dragging him into the large room where the coma patients were kept, letting the door swing shut loudly as he slammed Fischer against the wall, one arm pressed against his chest and securing him there.
"What do you know," he barked at Fischer, leaning in so close Fischer thought he could see the fire burning behind his eyes. "What have you found out."
Fischer leaned his head to the side in an attempt to increase the space between the two of them. "Everything," he said, secretly rejoicing at how much calmer he was than Arthur. "I know everything about you - about your team - about what you did."
"And what's that?" Arthur grilled, increasing the pressure he placed against Fischer. He needed to make sure he wasn't bluffing.
"You - you performed inception," Fischer gasped out, startled by how much force Arthur was using. "On me. To make me break up Fischer-Morrow." As soon as she said this, Arthur turned away, releasing Fischer as he paced towards the other side of the room. He ran one hand over his face and placed the other on his side, alternatively walking away from Fischer before swinging around to stare at him again, all the while muttering a few choice words under his breath.
"You want to know how I found out?" he asked Arthur.
"It doesn't matter," he muttered, eyes downcast. "Not that it's going to help now. So what is it?" He stared at Fischer again.
"What is what?" Fischer asked, confused.
"What do you want," Arthur said, exasperated, and Fischer realized he should have picked up on that the first time.
"Oh," he said lamely.
"You obviously want something from me, or you wouldn't have bothered coming. You would have taken care of me before I even knew what was coming," he explained. "So what is it? Why me?"
"I want to go inside his mind," Fischer blurted out. He knew just how strange his request was, and he didn't know how else to ask it, so he simply decided to forgo any traces of subtlety.
"What?" Arthur asked, not quite understanding Fischer. "Whose mind?"
"Cobb's," Fischer told him, thinking it would have been obvious. "I want to go inside his mind."
"Why?" None of this was making sense to Arthur. "Revenge? He's already in a coma if you hadn't noticed. He never woke up because of what he did to you. Isn't that revenge enough?"
"I don't want revenge," Fischer asserted. "I want to..." he trailed off for a moment, and Arthur stared at him expectantly. "I want to wake him up."
Again, Arthur could only ask, "Why?" But, then, he managed to regain his thoughts and added, "That's impossible. Cobb is - he's stuck in limbo."
"I know."
"You don't understand, though, you can't just waltz in there and expect to say, 'Oh, hi, it's time to go back to reality!' Do you even have a clue how this works? He's lost down there, and if you tried to follow him - you don't even know what you're doing, you've never even done this before - you'd get just as lost as he is. Maybe even more," Arthur warned. "You can't do it."
"But you're going to let me try," Fischer said, saying the words as though they were indisputable. "You have no reason not to. You have nothing to lose by doing this. I'll even pay you. But if you don't...." Fischer didn't even need to utter the threat out loud. Arthur understood.
He crossed his arms over his chest, and by his furrowed brows Fischer could tell his mind was racing, turning over the the proposal in his mind, considering it carefully. "I don't like this," he admitted.
"That's a shame." Fischer shrugged. "I'm doing it anyway."
---
In the end, even Arthur had a price that would allow him to lose his reservations. This is not to say he ever felt comfortable with the plan: Fischer could never say he wasn't warned, every single step of the way. But Fischer never second guessed his decision, never once doubted his own resolve. Even as Arthur pressed the IV into his arm one late night, the hospital deathly still as they worked in silence, Fischer did not question what he was about to do. Then, his mind began to slip and there was no turning back, and he offered Arthur one lopsided smile before his eyes closed and he was gone.
---
In Cobb's dream, there was a cell.
It was the kind you see in movies, all cold and unfeeling concrete with a small rusted frame and a thin film of material that was supposed to be a mattress laying on top of it, and it served as a bed. Bars stretched the entire length of the cell, guarding the rest of the world from its occupant and guarding him from them. By appearance the cell stood alone, an island in a sea of nothing tangible but full of memories and thoughts and hopes, ideas that swirled together and created this world. There was just one item to keep the cell company; only one companion in the realm of the physical, sitting just beyond arm's reach from the cell. It was a small, silver top, and it spun and spun and spun and never fell over.
---
Fischer pulls away from Cobb suddenly, and Cobb misses the feel of his body against his, so he pulls him back against him. "Cobb -" Fischer gasps, and he stares at Cobb with wide eyes that are overwhelmed and confused. Hesitantly, Cobb moves forward for another kiss but Fischer moves to the side again.
This isn't supposed to be happening, this isn't how Cobb wants Fischer to behave. For a moment Cobb thinks he's lost control before, when Fischer turns to look at him again and Cobb notices that he's doing all these things he never would have expected, surprising him and defying him - he realizes that Fischer's not a dream at all. "You're real," he breathes, and the knowledge hits him like a ton of bricks. "You're not part of the dream. You're actually here."
Fischer's lips turn upward ever so slightly into the softest of smiles. "I am," he admits.
"Why?" Cobb asks.
"Why am I real?" Fischer returns, eyebrows raised ever so slightly. He knows that's not what Cobb is asking.
"Why did you come here?" Cobb specifies.
"I told you already," Fischer says. "I meant the first thing I said. I still need you." A cool breeze whips through Fischer's hair, displacing it in front of his eyes and he has to sleek it back to see. "I want you to come back with me." The air is heavy with the scent of salt.
"But why - after everything - " It takes Cobb a moment to form his words correctly, his mind so overwhelmed by having Fischer here, not just tangible but real and the longing he has for Cobb is real, too, and so is the need - and Cobb is having a hard time processing everything. "You're right. I destroyed you."
"You destroyed who I was," Fischer corrects. "I'm not that person anymore. It might even be for the better," and as he says these things his voice is insistent. "But I don't know who I am right now. I am empty, and I am lost, and you're the only one who can find me."
"So you found me first," Cobb murmurs, and it's just barely a whisper, nearly drowned out by the sound of crashing waves.
Fischer might not have heard it, because he just stands there gazing at Cobb expectantly. Then, slowly, he moves away, walking backwards as the ocean water laps at his feet and he sinks into the sand. "Leave this place," he urges.
Cobb looks out at the edge of his memories, at the the warm sand beneath him and the ocean that spreads out forever before him. The sun is just beginning to rise, its rays dancing across the sky as it paints the world a soft lavender. The ocean is smooth and glassy where it meets the horizon, and it reflects the colors of the sky above it so perfectly the two appear to be a single identity; the ocean never ends and the sky never ends, and they just open up to a world of soft light that stretches into eternity.
Fischer is leaning down and picking something up, something that Cobb has been looking at for a while but was never able to reach. Wordlessly, he places the silver top in Cobb's hands, curling the man's fingers around it as he encloses Cobb's hands within his own.
Cobb knows what he has to do now, and he lets Fischer lead him towards the horizon. Neither of them ever lets go.