[FIC] And The Rest Will Come - PG-13 - 7031 - 2/3
Title: And The Rest Will Come
Chapter: Two
Author: koushi
Pairing: Cobb/Robert
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 7031 (total)
Disclaimer: I do not own Inception or any of its characters.
Summary/Prompt: Written for these prompts, one and two, on inception_kink . Angst, romance, and fluff.
Warnings: Cursing, mild violence.
An ear-piercing clatter as the bowl of oatmeal and peaches, hot from the stove, toppled to the linoleum floor, shattering into a thousand pieces and spraying gooey sweetness across the cupboards. Cobb had just flipped the television to the morning news before helping himself to the warm pot, whistling as he listened to the anchorwoman expound on the news of the day.
Fischer-Morrow heir, Robert Fischer, son of the late Maurice Fischer, who had made history in dismantling his father’s empire just three months earlier, was reported missing minutes ago by close friend and relative, Peter Browning. He was last seen shopping at the Yves. St. Laurent boutique at North Rodeo yesterday evening, where, witnesses say, a white van with tinted windows stopped in front of his path, and two men in ski masks pushed him inside the vehicle. We were unable to identify the license plate number as it was obscured, but please call in to the special hotline if you spot a suspicious white van in the area. We will keep you posted as more details surface.
Phillipa and James dashed into the kitchen in their pajamas, both still clutching their respective stuffed animals and rubbing their eyes from the harsh awakening. “Daddy, what happened?”
Cobb realized his hands were shaking as he stood helplessly in the middle of the kitchen, his undershirt and shorts covered in goops of oatmeal, which slid down his legs and congealed. “It’s… it’s nothing, honey. Daddy had an accident and made a mess. He’ll clean it up and make you both breakfast, okay?”
They nodded, and he did as he promised, putting himself on autopilot as he swept up the mess carefully and wiped down the surfaces, including a cursory toweling of himself. Cobb fetched the kids some powdered sugar for their bowls and joined them at the table, cupping a much-needed mug of black coffee in his frozen fingers. He gulped it down despite the temperature, burning himself but too numb to care.
In the past few weeks, Miles had returned to France, his sabbatical having ended when Cobb released him of his childcare obligation, thanking him profusely for his time and dedication. He himself had made a grand effort to forget, to cherish what he and Robert had had at face value: a beautiful dream… but ultimately one that couldn’t last.
When they scampered back to the playroom, Cobb was finally able to think. Robert. Who had a beef with Robert? Or, rather, who wanted a piece of his fortune? He grimaced. The whole fucking world, that’s who. Okay, a different approach then. Who had access to his scheduling information and whereabouts? This, he could narrow down. Uncle Peter, for one, was always in the know, although a bit less informed lately considering his delay in filing the missing persons report to the authorities. Fischer had made it a point of slipping out from under his overbearing uncle’s thumb and assuming his role as an independent adult. He was a distinct but unlikely possibility, considering that Browning had even reported the incident at all. Then there was…
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Cobb nearly rammed his fist into the wall in anger. Anger at himself. He suspected that he was making a risky decision when he’d first contacted a man he knew back when he was into the dreamsharing business. Ted Carlson. If you needed to hunt someone down, track them like a wild beast, know when they ate, slept, took showers, he was your man. But Mr. Carlson wasn’t known for his upright morals: in fact, he didn’t give two shits about who you wanted to tail or what you had planned as long as the price was right. And in this case, he’d given Cobb quite a bargain when quoting him for the Fischer sabotage and intel because the price was right… as long as he could later circle in on the mark himself and extort his own ransom.
“Goddammit, Ted, answer your fucking phone,” Cobb hissed, attempting to keep his voice low as he shouted at the man’s voicemail. He was usually good about answering his phone, so he could only assume the worst. Conclusion? Ted Carlson was definitely involved with the kidnapping.
Although Ted had connections aplenty, he wasn’t the most popular human being thanks to his repute for brutality and willingness to smite loyalty in the face. Any hired goons would have to be mercenaries, contracted specifically for the job at hand. This was a helpful fact because it would then be easier for Cobb to gain access to Robert…
Wait a second. What the fuck are you thinking, Dom? Mercenaries or not, these bastards are not just playing games. They are trained professionals who have no scruples with snuffing out an extra life along the way. Think about your children, Dom, and the promise you made to Mal. You can’t afford to put your life at risk for some fleeting romance, especially when the man doesn’t know your damn name, and if he did, he wouldn’t hesitate to have you arrested.
True, this was all true. Except for the fleeting part: supplanting his conscious mind with other thoughts didn’t leave any lasting impression on his own subconscious. By day, he was a doting father, spending ample time with his children, but by night… by night Cobb was Mr. Charles, and within his dreams, he could see him once again. He let the cautionary words wash over him as his hands dialed a familiar combination on the telephone. So much for self-control.
“Hello, Arthur,” Cobb said matter-of-factly. “I have a favor to ask of you.”
***
“Five hundred and fifty million dollars? Are you out of your fucking mind?” Browning shouted into the receiver, beads of sweat forming on his reddening face. His assistant tried to calm him down, reminding him of his heart condition, but to no avail. “Of course his life is worth that much to me: he’s my dear nephew and godson. But listen, I’m telling you no one has that much cash just sitting around. It’s all tied up in investments. Ten million I can pull from insurance easily, and I can get you another ten million from my own assets, but the amount you’re asking is absolutely ridiculous!”
He paused for a second, listening to the garbled voice-warped by some sound software-dictate more unacceptable terms at him. “Two weeks is not enough time, even for a hundred million. As much as I loathe you bastards for what you’re doing, I wouldn’t lie to you about something this important, dammit. I’m telling you, it’s the plain truth.”
He gasped, clutching the phone and waving his hands in the air upon hearing the reply. “No, no! Wait! Don’t hang up yet. Please, we can negotiate as long as you are reasonable with your terms. No! Don’t hurt him, please.” His knuckles turned white as he squeezed yet harder. “Is that him I hear in the background? Robert? Are you there? Can you hear me? Please, let me speak to him!”
But then the dialtone came on as the call ended abruptly. Peter Browning sank into his leather couch-the very picture of defeat-and coughed, hacking into his clenched fist. He gasped hoarsely, “Water, water…”
The assistant quickly provided him with a fresh glass, of which he drank half in one thirsty gulp. “Dammit, these filthy bastards drive a hard bargain, Thomas. We may have to sell off half of what’s left of Fischer Energy, Inc. to be able to pay the ransom.”
Thomas patted him lightly on the shoulder and took his finished glass when he was through. “I know what you’re thinking. ‘I smell bankruptcy.’ But, whatever it takes, sir, for your nephew’s life. And you have two weeks to come up with an alternate plan.”
Browning nodded sagely. “You’re right, Thomas, you’re right. His father would have my head for letting it get this far… but dammit, Maurice,” he said, raising his gaze to the ceiling, “I’m doing the best I can.”
Robert, on the other hand, hadn’t been able to make a single coherent word throughout the phone call: he was blindfolded and gagged, sitting against the wall of a dingy abandoned office building its air peppered with dust mites in the light. Myriad sheets of paper littered the matted carpet, remnants of a bygone bureaucracy.
He wanted to talk some sense into his captors, to show the idiots how dangerous their stratagem was for themselves and how they would get their due once the police-and perhaps a certain other guest-arrived to lock them up for the rest of their pitiful lives. But, of course, they had no interest in what he had to say, instead loudly contesting amongst themselves who would take which shifts and the contents of their dinner for that night.
Robert tried to think of better things to try to keep his spirits up, to take his mind off his sore body and cracked lips. If this were a dream, where would Mr. Charles be right now? He’d have heard the news by this time, stirred into action out of his protective sense of duty, if not out of residual love. He couldn’t blame the man if his spark had dimmed, fading into nothingness like the death throes of a dying star. In fact, he’d deserved it after what he’d done. But requited or not, he knew he’d bear this torch for a long time-he was not the type to easily discard his devotion-and one couldn’t very well fault Robert for desiring this one final feat of heroism in his rescue, could one?
So he lay quietly, motionlessly as the faceless men chattered, feasted, and drank around him. And he waited.
***
“Okay, I want to make this perfectly clear to you, Dom: just because I work for the LAPD now doesn’t mean I call all the shots,” Arthur stated, enunciating each syllable as if doing so would drill the truth of the matter into Cobb’s head.
But he was having none of it. “I understand that this is on short notice, Arthur, and I promise you I’ll owe you a thousand favors in the future if you just pull through this one time. You’re a respected new detective with a military specialist background, plus you’re buddies with the police chief and served in the same unit as did the mayor. Don’t tell me there’s anything you can’t pull, if need be.”
“Perhaps this would be true if we had an emergency situation, but dammit, Dom, you spring this shit on me out of nowhere and won’t even tell me the reason for it. How the hell am I supposed to help you if I don’t even know the details of your mission?” Arthur protested, crossing his arms over his chest and covering his shiny new badge.
“Believe me, Arthur, I would divulge it to you if it were germane to the matter, but it assuredly isn’t. If you’ve ever trusted me at all, then trust me just this once, if not because of my current pleas then for old time’s sake,” Cobb said, appealing to his best friend’s nostalgia.
“Ugh,” Arthur uttered, somewhat miffed that Cobb was taking such low blows, poking at his weak spots. “Fine, Dom, fine. You win. Now just brief me on my part of the plan, and let’s get this over with.”
Cobb smiled, stealthily releasing a sigh of relief. He leaned forward over Arthur’s desk in his station office and asked in a shushed voice, “You looked up the properties I was talking about, right?”
“Yeah,” Arthur said, unlocking the bottom drawer of his file cabinet and retrieving a neatly labeled folder. “This guy has three commercial properties in the city, as I assume you are not targeting his personal home. One is beachfront, a cargo hold near the docks. Second one used to be an office building but hasn’t had a tenant in quite a few years. The third and last one is a skating rink, but it seems to be in operation. You want us to hit some or all of these places?”
Cobb mused over these facts. He didn’t expect Ted Carlson to be hiding out with his own prisoner: rather, he’d be hidden elsewhere, focused on obtaining his ransom and evading any pursuit from the authorities. But no matter. It wasn’t that asshole he was looking for anyway; all Cobb cared about was making Fischer whole again and restoring him to safety, as if this whole fiasco had never taken place. He felt the familiar twinges of guilt eat at him once again lately, chilling his appetite and swiping his ability to sleep, much less to dream. And he couldn’t let go of the truth that this was all his fault, for giving into temptation and getting tangled up in Fischer’s mind in the first place. You should have learned by now not to mess with things that don’t belong to you.
“All of them,” he replied. “Just to be sure and to smoke out anyone hiding who might be related to my target, and take them in for questioning.” Might as well take Ted Carlson into custody if at all possible: two birds with one stone.
“And you?” Arthur asked, tapping the desk with his forefinger.
“I’ll just have to take a gamble that the one I choose is the right one. And that’s assuming that he’s still being held in the city.” It’s damn risky, but it’s the only way I can think of.
“All right then. We got one shot, and it’s all or nothing. I hope you know what you’re doing, Dom. You seem out of your wits lately.”
Cobb grinned, with a crease at the corners of his eyes. “I’m just putting things back where they belong.”
Next Chapter
Chapter: Two
Author: koushi
Pairing: Cobb/Robert
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 7031 (total)
Disclaimer: I do not own Inception or any of its characters.
Summary/Prompt: Written for these prompts, one and two, on inception_kink . Angst, romance, and fluff.
Warnings: Cursing, mild violence.
An ear-piercing clatter as the bowl of oatmeal and peaches, hot from the stove, toppled to the linoleum floor, shattering into a thousand pieces and spraying gooey sweetness across the cupboards. Cobb had just flipped the television to the morning news before helping himself to the warm pot, whistling as he listened to the anchorwoman expound on the news of the day.
Fischer-Morrow heir, Robert Fischer, son of the late Maurice Fischer, who had made history in dismantling his father’s empire just three months earlier, was reported missing minutes ago by close friend and relative, Peter Browning. He was last seen shopping at the Yves. St. Laurent boutique at North Rodeo yesterday evening, where, witnesses say, a white van with tinted windows stopped in front of his path, and two men in ski masks pushed him inside the vehicle. We were unable to identify the license plate number as it was obscured, but please call in to the special hotline if you spot a suspicious white van in the area. We will keep you posted as more details surface.
Phillipa and James dashed into the kitchen in their pajamas, both still clutching their respective stuffed animals and rubbing their eyes from the harsh awakening. “Daddy, what happened?”
Cobb realized his hands were shaking as he stood helplessly in the middle of the kitchen, his undershirt and shorts covered in goops of oatmeal, which slid down his legs and congealed. “It’s… it’s nothing, honey. Daddy had an accident and made a mess. He’ll clean it up and make you both breakfast, okay?”
They nodded, and he did as he promised, putting himself on autopilot as he swept up the mess carefully and wiped down the surfaces, including a cursory toweling of himself. Cobb fetched the kids some powdered sugar for their bowls and joined them at the table, cupping a much-needed mug of black coffee in his frozen fingers. He gulped it down despite the temperature, burning himself but too numb to care.
In the past few weeks, Miles had returned to France, his sabbatical having ended when Cobb released him of his childcare obligation, thanking him profusely for his time and dedication. He himself had made a grand effort to forget, to cherish what he and Robert had had at face value: a beautiful dream… but ultimately one that couldn’t last.
When they scampered back to the playroom, Cobb was finally able to think. Robert. Who had a beef with Robert? Or, rather, who wanted a piece of his fortune? He grimaced. The whole fucking world, that’s who. Okay, a different approach then. Who had access to his scheduling information and whereabouts? This, he could narrow down. Uncle Peter, for one, was always in the know, although a bit less informed lately considering his delay in filing the missing persons report to the authorities. Fischer had made it a point of slipping out from under his overbearing uncle’s thumb and assuming his role as an independent adult. He was a distinct but unlikely possibility, considering that Browning had even reported the incident at all. Then there was…
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Cobb nearly rammed his fist into the wall in anger. Anger at himself. He suspected that he was making a risky decision when he’d first contacted a man he knew back when he was into the dreamsharing business. Ted Carlson. If you needed to hunt someone down, track them like a wild beast, know when they ate, slept, took showers, he was your man. But Mr. Carlson wasn’t known for his upright morals: in fact, he didn’t give two shits about who you wanted to tail or what you had planned as long as the price was right. And in this case, he’d given Cobb quite a bargain when quoting him for the Fischer sabotage and intel because the price was right… as long as he could later circle in on the mark himself and extort his own ransom.
“Goddammit, Ted, answer your fucking phone,” Cobb hissed, attempting to keep his voice low as he shouted at the man’s voicemail. He was usually good about answering his phone, so he could only assume the worst. Conclusion? Ted Carlson was definitely involved with the kidnapping.
Although Ted had connections aplenty, he wasn’t the most popular human being thanks to his repute for brutality and willingness to smite loyalty in the face. Any hired goons would have to be mercenaries, contracted specifically for the job at hand. This was a helpful fact because it would then be easier for Cobb to gain access to Robert…
Wait a second. What the fuck are you thinking, Dom? Mercenaries or not, these bastards are not just playing games. They are trained professionals who have no scruples with snuffing out an extra life along the way. Think about your children, Dom, and the promise you made to Mal. You can’t afford to put your life at risk for some fleeting romance, especially when the man doesn’t know your damn name, and if he did, he wouldn’t hesitate to have you arrested.
True, this was all true. Except for the fleeting part: supplanting his conscious mind with other thoughts didn’t leave any lasting impression on his own subconscious. By day, he was a doting father, spending ample time with his children, but by night… by night Cobb was Mr. Charles, and within his dreams, he could see him once again. He let the cautionary words wash over him as his hands dialed a familiar combination on the telephone. So much for self-control.
“Hello, Arthur,” Cobb said matter-of-factly. “I have a favor to ask of you.”
***
“Five hundred and fifty million dollars? Are you out of your fucking mind?” Browning shouted into the receiver, beads of sweat forming on his reddening face. His assistant tried to calm him down, reminding him of his heart condition, but to no avail. “Of course his life is worth that much to me: he’s my dear nephew and godson. But listen, I’m telling you no one has that much cash just sitting around. It’s all tied up in investments. Ten million I can pull from insurance easily, and I can get you another ten million from my own assets, but the amount you’re asking is absolutely ridiculous!”
He paused for a second, listening to the garbled voice-warped by some sound software-dictate more unacceptable terms at him. “Two weeks is not enough time, even for a hundred million. As much as I loathe you bastards for what you’re doing, I wouldn’t lie to you about something this important, dammit. I’m telling you, it’s the plain truth.”
He gasped, clutching the phone and waving his hands in the air upon hearing the reply. “No, no! Wait! Don’t hang up yet. Please, we can negotiate as long as you are reasonable with your terms. No! Don’t hurt him, please.” His knuckles turned white as he squeezed yet harder. “Is that him I hear in the background? Robert? Are you there? Can you hear me? Please, let me speak to him!”
But then the dialtone came on as the call ended abruptly. Peter Browning sank into his leather couch-the very picture of defeat-and coughed, hacking into his clenched fist. He gasped hoarsely, “Water, water…”
The assistant quickly provided him with a fresh glass, of which he drank half in one thirsty gulp. “Dammit, these filthy bastards drive a hard bargain, Thomas. We may have to sell off half of what’s left of Fischer Energy, Inc. to be able to pay the ransom.”
Thomas patted him lightly on the shoulder and took his finished glass when he was through. “I know what you’re thinking. ‘I smell bankruptcy.’ But, whatever it takes, sir, for your nephew’s life. And you have two weeks to come up with an alternate plan.”
Browning nodded sagely. “You’re right, Thomas, you’re right. His father would have my head for letting it get this far… but dammit, Maurice,” he said, raising his gaze to the ceiling, “I’m doing the best I can.”
Robert, on the other hand, hadn’t been able to make a single coherent word throughout the phone call: he was blindfolded and gagged, sitting against the wall of a dingy abandoned office building its air peppered with dust mites in the light. Myriad sheets of paper littered the matted carpet, remnants of a bygone bureaucracy.
He wanted to talk some sense into his captors, to show the idiots how dangerous their stratagem was for themselves and how they would get their due once the police-and perhaps a certain other guest-arrived to lock them up for the rest of their pitiful lives. But, of course, they had no interest in what he had to say, instead loudly contesting amongst themselves who would take which shifts and the contents of their dinner for that night.
Robert tried to think of better things to try to keep his spirits up, to take his mind off his sore body and cracked lips. If this were a dream, where would Mr. Charles be right now? He’d have heard the news by this time, stirred into action out of his protective sense of duty, if not out of residual love. He couldn’t blame the man if his spark had dimmed, fading into nothingness like the death throes of a dying star. In fact, he’d deserved it after what he’d done. But requited or not, he knew he’d bear this torch for a long time-he was not the type to easily discard his devotion-and one couldn’t very well fault Robert for desiring this one final feat of heroism in his rescue, could one?
So he lay quietly, motionlessly as the faceless men chattered, feasted, and drank around him. And he waited.
***
“Okay, I want to make this perfectly clear to you, Dom: just because I work for the LAPD now doesn’t mean I call all the shots,” Arthur stated, enunciating each syllable as if doing so would drill the truth of the matter into Cobb’s head.
But he was having none of it. “I understand that this is on short notice, Arthur, and I promise you I’ll owe you a thousand favors in the future if you just pull through this one time. You’re a respected new detective with a military specialist background, plus you’re buddies with the police chief and served in the same unit as did the mayor. Don’t tell me there’s anything you can’t pull, if need be.”
“Perhaps this would be true if we had an emergency situation, but dammit, Dom, you spring this shit on me out of nowhere and won’t even tell me the reason for it. How the hell am I supposed to help you if I don’t even know the details of your mission?” Arthur protested, crossing his arms over his chest and covering his shiny new badge.
“Believe me, Arthur, I would divulge it to you if it were germane to the matter, but it assuredly isn’t. If you’ve ever trusted me at all, then trust me just this once, if not because of my current pleas then for old time’s sake,” Cobb said, appealing to his best friend’s nostalgia.
“Ugh,” Arthur uttered, somewhat miffed that Cobb was taking such low blows, poking at his weak spots. “Fine, Dom, fine. You win. Now just brief me on my part of the plan, and let’s get this over with.”
Cobb smiled, stealthily releasing a sigh of relief. He leaned forward over Arthur’s desk in his station office and asked in a shushed voice, “You looked up the properties I was talking about, right?”
“Yeah,” Arthur said, unlocking the bottom drawer of his file cabinet and retrieving a neatly labeled folder. “This guy has three commercial properties in the city, as I assume you are not targeting his personal home. One is beachfront, a cargo hold near the docks. Second one used to be an office building but hasn’t had a tenant in quite a few years. The third and last one is a skating rink, but it seems to be in operation. You want us to hit some or all of these places?”
Cobb mused over these facts. He didn’t expect Ted Carlson to be hiding out with his own prisoner: rather, he’d be hidden elsewhere, focused on obtaining his ransom and evading any pursuit from the authorities. But no matter. It wasn’t that asshole he was looking for anyway; all Cobb cared about was making Fischer whole again and restoring him to safety, as if this whole fiasco had never taken place. He felt the familiar twinges of guilt eat at him once again lately, chilling his appetite and swiping his ability to sleep, much less to dream. And he couldn’t let go of the truth that this was all his fault, for giving into temptation and getting tangled up in Fischer’s mind in the first place. You should have learned by now not to mess with things that don’t belong to you.
“All of them,” he replied. “Just to be sure and to smoke out anyone hiding who might be related to my target, and take them in for questioning.” Might as well take Ted Carlson into custody if at all possible: two birds with one stone.
“And you?” Arthur asked, tapping the desk with his forefinger.
“I’ll just have to take a gamble that the one I choose is the right one. And that’s assuming that he’s still being held in the city.” It’s damn risky, but it’s the only way I can think of.
“All right then. We got one shot, and it’s all or nothing. I hope you know what you’re doing, Dom. You seem out of your wits lately.”
Cobb grinned, with a crease at the corners of his eyes. “I’m just putting things back where they belong.”
Next Chapter