FIC: MINOR CHARACTERS
Title: Minor Characters
Pairing: Eames/Arthur, unsuccessful! Ariadne/Cobb and Arthur/Ariadne, but that really isn’t the point of the story. There is no point, actually.
Rating: R just to be safe (lots of f-bombs, some sexual references, tons of general silliness)
Wordcount: 3300, oneshot.
Summary: Nash, Browning, and occasionally Yusuf languish in a hellish green-carpeted prison reserved for neglected minor characters while the rest of the Dream Team runs free and sheds the restrictive bonds of canon characterization. I don’t really write fanfic, this is first for Inception and first in…years. It’s crack fic, immensely silly and basically just a good-natured ribbing on some of the things that keep cropping up (and I hope will continue to crop up, don’t get me wrong!) in this awesome fandom of ours.
Disclaimer: The film “Inception” was awesome and therefore I didn’t have anything to do with it.
Nash awakens from his dreamless sleep with a start. He is still here. Here where? He won’t venture a guess, but if he did, he’d peg it as being his own personal hell. The room is cold, and the lighting is dim. The whole place is carpeted. The carpet not only covers the floor, but runs up the walls as well. He can feel it, that unmistakable--wait, no, that nearly unmistakable--scritchy scratch of wool. It’s too dark to know for certain, but he would bet his life--the value of which, granted, was plummeting fast--that it was a particularly putrid shade of yellowish green. >
He’s not alone. There is another man in the room with him, he can just make out the shadowy figure resting against the opposite wall. He’d more than once tried to strike up a conversation, but the man always seemed too weary to respond with any more than a few words of general irritation. He looked old. Maybe he’d been there for years. Who knows.
“Fucking Cobol!” Nash rages into the darkness. The other man shifts slightly, but makes no effort to join in what Nash feels is winding up to be a particularly cathartic episode of self-pity. “I bet they did this to me! To us.” He shoots a glance toward the shadowy figure in the corner. It’s been weeks since Nash was dragged off by Cobol’s thugs and stuck in this godforsaken place. The only person on whom he places no blame for this is himself. He blames everyone else he knows in turn. Today, he has chosen to accuse--
“Fucking SAITO! How much do you want to bet that he had them cover this place in carpet just to rub it in? Piece of work, that one is. How much do you think it would have cost to keep me safe from Cobol? A million? Less? The man can buy airlines for Cobb on a whim and yet he won’t lift a finger for me. You know why? Some sense of honor? No. It’s because it can’t be made into a catchphrase. ‘I took pity on a struggling architect and saved him from vengeful ex-employers, it was neater.’ Doesn’t work. No one would put that on a t-shirt.” Nash sits cross-legged on the carpet, pulling the fibers out one by one, as if he hopes the woolen monstrosity can feel it. Sometimes he wishes Cobb had just shot him when he had the chance. Most of his life up to this point had been centered around the avoidance of pain. But now, when he swears he hears footsteps outside, he hopes it’s Cobol’s thugs come to try and pry any useful information out of him. A couple weeks in this carpeted crypt made him think about pliers and sodium pentothal and hard-line brute-force extractions that mangled your brain in a way that could only be described as a sort of twisted longing.
Fucking Saito. Bastard.
___
Browning crouches painfully in the corner of the puzzlingly carpeted room. He doesn’t know how he got here, and he doesn’t really care. He wants that idiot he’s locked up here with to shut the fuck up and stop whining. If he wasn’t so arthritic, he’d bash the guy’s face in himself. What does he keep saying? Cobol? And Saito? The Mr. Saito, about whose purchase of a major airline he had just read about in last week’s Financial Times? He supposes it is possible. After all, whoever put him here has to be powerful. He knows this, because he’s not the only one who’s been messed with. They got to Robert, too. That dear boy arrived at his father’s funeral in LA only to announce in some misguided (or, as Browning suspected, intentionally suggested) attempt to resolve his daddy issues that he would be breaking apart the great Fischer-Morrow empire. It was an incredibly inappropriate eulogy. Browning was embarrassed for him. But the boy wouldn’t listen--Robert didn’t trust him anymore, just like that. He was his own godfather, for goodness’ sakes! The father that Maurice never was. Poor Robert never got along with his father. He remembers the first big fall out coming at the age of fifteen, when Maurice discovered that Robert had stashed away a large collection of his mother’s clothes in his own closet. Maurice was angry, told Robert that he shouldn’t let his emotions rule him, and that it was weak to try and cling to his late mother’s memory by hoarding her belongings. Browning shudders to think what Maurice would have done had he known that Robert regularly wore them. What was the name of that club he had to drag the boy back from, late at night, during his first year at Harvard? Hot Lips? Just Lips? God…he doesn’t deserve this. He deserves a fucking medal.
____
Arthur and Eames are meandering down a cobblestone road in Paris, hand in hand. Arthur is impeccably dressed in a three piece suit and cufflinks shaped like dice. Eames is wearing next to nothing. What little he is wearing is paisley.
“I hope when we get back to the warehouse, you are going to take care to not to ruin my suits. I don’t like it when you ruin my suits.” Arthur says, reaching over and brushing a stray hair off of Eames’ ear.
“Oh pet, when you say that, that’s just code for ‘I want you to rip this suit off of me and fuck me senseless,’ right darling?”
“No, Eames.”
“Oh, darling, are we playing hard to get tonight?” he winks. “I know that’s a specialty of yours.”
“No, I am perfectly fine with the fucking part, as you know I always am--every day of the week, on every conceivable piece of furniture, using every conceivable gimmick--”
“I liked when you showed up at my house looking for your pants, darling. And the one where you turned into a woman. Although, I admit, that’s encroaching on my territory a bit…” he wags his finger. Arthur ignores him.
“--but I MEAN IT about my suits. You know I how anal I get about them, just humor me.”
Eames sniggers. “Anal.”
Arthur lets out veritable class five hurricane of exasperated breath. “Eames, why do you do this?”
“What, darling?”
“Your IQ’s up in the stratosphere somewhere between Einstein and that genius who directed Batman, and yet you insist on acting like…like…a second-grader who has access to a large supply of pornographic magazines.”
Eames wraps his arms around Arthur and rests his chin on the shorter man’s shoulder. “That’s a horrible metaphor, pet. But you know why I do it…it’s because I know you love it,” he whispers breathily into Arthur’s ear.
Arthur shoots him an expectant look.
“…darling.” Eames finishes hurriedly.
_____
There is a sound, a slight thwump, and round 84 of Nash and Browning’s staring competition is interrupted by the presence of a large man wielding a beaker of what smells like paint thinner and several shot glasses. He looks around.
“Damn.” he says.
“That was my general reaction as well,” Nash sniffs bitterly. This is the man that pops in and out, that leaves and comes back. His name is Yusuf, and he is usually not this chatty. Nash suspects he is tipsy.
“What a shit time to end up back here,” Yusuf says sadly. “Oh well. I suppose you can make a party anywhere. Drink?” he shakes the beaker invitingly, letting the liquid slap up against the sides of the glass and release even more noxious fumes.
“What is it?” Nash looks mildly worried at the thought of an answer.
“My own formulation of the chemicals! And by chemicals I mean alcohol. And lots of it.”
“Now that,” exclaims Browning, “Is just what the doctor ordered.” He grabs a glass and Yusuf pours him a drink. In a flickering moment of generosity he grabs another one and pours one for Nash, too, scooting it across the floor with his foot.
“If you see any black floaty things, don’t worry. It’s probably just cat hair. I tried to get them all out, but I always miss a couple. Man…” Yusuf takes a look around his abysmal surroundings. “If I knew I was going to end up here again, I’d have added some hallucinogens, just to liven things up…well, cheers!“ Yusuf announces unconvincingly, holding his shot glass over his head. Browning halfheartedly clinks glasses before throwing it back and gagging slightly.
Nash is still staring at it, paranoia scrawled on his face. “Is it poisoned?”
“Why would it be poisoned?”
Nash narrows his eyes and looks suspicious.
Yusuf lets out an exasperated sigh. “Good god, Nash--just because you’ve made a habit of double-crossing people doesn’t mean everyone’s out to get you. In fact, no one’s out to get you. No one even wants to see you. Ever!” He takes another shot and unnecessarily wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “You too, old man.” he says, motioning to Browning, “That’s why you’re here. Sorry about that. Just the way that it goes.”
Browning freezes. “What do you mean?”
“You haven’t figured it out yet, have you? Look around you! Do you even remember how you got here?”
“Yes.” Nash says. “The guys from Cobol dragged me here. Literally dragged. It was uncomfortable. I pulled this muscle, right under my arm---” he motions wildly to a region somewhere below his right armpit with a fervor that would suggest he thinks someone actually might care.
“I don’t remember how I got here,” interrupts Browning.
“Argh,” Yusuf growls, “Nash, why do you have to make things so complicated?”
Nash lowers his arm. “How is that complicated? Oh, wait. You wanted me to say I didn’t remember, right? You wanted me to say that so I would ask if we were dreaming. I gotcha.”
Yusuf looks perturbed, like when a small child about to tell a joke gets beaten to the punch line by his obnoxious younger sister. “Yes. But you’ve ruined it.”
“I said, I don’t remember how I got here!” restates Browning, somewhat annoyed. “So are we? Dreaming?”
Yusuf’s face brightens considerably. “NO. BUT IT WOULD BE SO MUCH BETTER IF YOU WERE.” He pauses a second, as if for dramatic effect. The other two men do not appear to appreciate his cinematic flair. “What I mean is, this is Limbo. But not that Limbo, the Limbo where you can move mountains with your mind and hang out on the beach with your kids. There’s no pure creation here, boys. You’re fading, fast, and the stronger THEY get, the weaker you become. Until you disappear entirely.”
“They?”
“The Dream Team. The Magnificent Four. As long as they’re out there, in the real world, living, laughing, loving (and they do a lot of that), we stay here. Languishing. Dying. Forever.”
Nash appears to mull it over. “I don’t get it.”
“Surprise.” mutters Browning.
“Aren’t you part of that team?”
Yusuf shakes his head sadly. “On occasion. I’m not always here, you know. Sometimes, just for a few moments, I am transported to the outside and find myself back with the team getting high and having a good time. And just when I think everything is going to be okay…wham”-- he mashes his hands together as if he were squashing Nash a particularly vile insect--“I’m back in Polyester Land with you two.”
“It’s wool.” mutters Nash. “Apparently that matters to some people.”
“Not that I think this explanation is remotely ridiculous or anything,” Browning ventures, “but--” there is a pop, and Yusuf vanishes, called back into the real world for however brief a visit.
For a few seconds, there is silence. Browning relishes it. He doesn’t suppose it will last. It doesn’t.
“ I don’t want to die!” wails Nash. “ I mean, I spent my whole life trying not to die…”
“And how is that working out for you, young man?” Browning snaps. “Do me a favor and let an old man fade out in peace, will you? Consider it my last request.”
Nash bites his nails and rocks back and forth, pictures of the four inseparable teammates--a great number of them NSFW-- flashing through his mind. “Those assholes, I wonder what they’re up to now…..”
____
Ariadne trudges down the street, lugging an unwieldy portfolio filled with her coursework. She is angry. The professor apparently does not think her mazes are an adequate final project. She wants to tell him that she can build a fucking Penrose staircase in his MIND, thank you very much, but she refrains. She may not refrain much longer. School is not enough for her now. Hell, she’s like the female James Bond--the fucking world is not enough. Paper and pencil is excruciating now, every school assignment a two-dimensional bore-fest, every waking moment in 3D reality only marginally better. This is not what she loves. She loves being a dream architect. She loves the pure creation. Getting stabbed in the gut by her bosses’ ex-wife? Not so much love there. She really can’t blame Mal, though…deep in Cobb’s brain, those last few synapses that crackled with the memory of her couldn’t help but lash out desperately in a final act of self-preservation. She probably thought Ariadne was a threat, that if given the chance, she would ride Cobb’s elevator all the way down, in the manner that one does unclothed and lost in a cloud of pheromones.
And she would. Oh god, she would.
She had gotten him alone yesterday, finally. He was in the shower. She had positioned herself seductively on the bed, wearing nothing but a lace teddy she had bought from that nice Irish lady with the familiar face at the lingerie shop downtown. She had been told she looked twelve, but she’d taken extra care to play up the shapely woman’s body that she normally hid under layers of sweaters and scarves. She was pleased with how well she’d pulled it off. Even Chris Hansen would be tempted by the luscious curves of her undeniably adult body. After what seemed like hours, she finally lost her patience and tiptoed into the bathroom. Cobb was making faces at himself in the mirror. Undaunted, Ariadne had walked over and slid her hand down his pants. She let out a growl that was perhaps more garbage disposal than seductress, but what she lacked in experience she was willing to make up for with passion. She looked up into Cobb’s eyes, expecting to see her own lust reflected back at her, but…
“Dom, just you just squint at me?”
Ariadne kicks a rock from her path angrily at the recollection. She stops at an ice cream cart, hoping to indulge in the age-old ritual of filling holes made by rejection with empty calories. She bites angrily into the soft dessert, and as half of it dribbles from her mouth she swings the cone wildly upward toward the old-fashioned buildings of the plaza and announces to anyone within earshot---
”This shit looks so much better upside down!”
_____
Saito sits in an airplane, surrounded by luxury. He is on his way to a Very Important Meeting. Glancing out the window, he surveys the greenery of Europe from 30,000 feet. The color from here is very interesting. It reminds him of his carpet. He is not quite sure exactly which country he is flying over at the moment, so he buys the whole continent. It seems neater, but it as soon as its citizens hear about the transfer there is considerable political unrest. Even Saito isn’t right about everything.
_____
Nash whimpers. His nails are chewed to the quick. Browning seems to have been infected with some of Nash’s anxiety, and paces the length of the carpeted room. Yusuf has not returned.
_____
There is a slow hiss as Eames opens the PASIV.
“So what about this new job?” inquires Arthur. “Do you think it will be dangerous?”
“Definitely. The subject’s subconscious is militarized up the wazoo. But we have to go in. If we don’t convince this madman not to exercise the nuclear option, we’re looking at World War Three.”
“Wow. Well, we’d better get ready then….or…we could just fuck.”
Eames snaps the PASIV shut with one quick movement and dives toward Arthur, mashing his legendary lips into his partner’s.
“I like the way you think, darling.”
______
Ariadne sits glumly at the student union bar. Arthur sidles up to her and drapes his arm around her shoulders. He has heard about Ariadne’s unsuccessful seduction of Cobb. He wants to reassure her, to make her feel better, and to offer advice--but then it hits him: he has no advice. No one has ever turned down a proposition from Arthur. Ever. The wheels in his brain begin turning, and his intentions drop forcefully from quite honorable to considerably inappropriate given the situation.
“Ariadne,” he says, deepening his voice and slowly walking his fingers up her arm,“Il a blessé quand automne vous du ciel?”
Ariadne squints. It is a squint to rival that of Dominick Cobb.
“Arthur…did you just do what I think you just did?”
Arthur shifts defensively on the stool. “I just asked you if it hurt when you fell from Heaven…in French.”
“So you see I’m upset and what do you do? Not only do you hit on me, but you use the lamest pick up line in all of history?”
“It was in French.” Arthur insists. “Doesn’t that make you want me?”
“No, it does not, Arthur, and for your information--I don’t know what that mangled mess of dying grammar and scrambled words was, but it was definitely not French. Do you even know French? Where do you get this stuff? Babelfish?”
Arthur reddens and fiddles with his cufflinks. “Eames likes it.” he mumbles.
Ariadne makes a general sound of disgust and turns away.
Arthur is stunned.
No one has ever turned down a proposition from Arthur. Until now. That one time that Mal invaded the dream while he was working and shot him in the kneecaps? Yeah. That was pretty awful.
This is worse.
___
Nash’s whimpers have turned into heaving sobs, and Browning has stopped pacing and is considering the most humane way to break Nash’s neck. He chides himself when it occurs to him he may want to make it hurt as much as possible. There is a noise. Yusuf is back! No…the two shadows that he had always been convinced had been a trick of the light (or lack thereof) had moved closer to the center of the room. They were people!
“What are you doing here?” Browning asks incredulously. This can’t get weirder. It is a boy, no older than sixteen. Asian, in trendy clothes, obviously only pretending to read the comic book he has practically glued to his face. Next to him, a woman. It’s hard to tell in the dim light but she appears blonde, dressed in some sort of uniform. It takes him a few minutes to recognize it--flight attendant. What the hell?
Nash lifts his head to look at the intruders, a string of mucus streaming from his nose. The boy wrinkles his own nose in disgust.
“Who are you?” Browning asks, gently. These two look sad, frightened.
No answer. They just stand there, silent.
“Can you morons even talk?” Nash’s voice swings manically upward from hopeless to hostile and climbing. Browning rolls his eyes. The flight attendant shakes her head.
No. Apparently they cannot.
Nash explodes. “WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE? YOU KNOW WHAT? I DON’T EVEN WANT TO KNOW. FUCK YOU!” he gesticulates wildly at the woman and the boy, and then turns to Browning. “AND FUCK YOU!! AND YUSUF…HELL, FUCK EVERYONE IN THIS FUCKING ROOM!”
There is a brief silence, Nash’s verbal assault still echoing from the walls. Then a voice. A smooth, undeniably British voice.
“Why darling,” it purrs, “that’s the best idea anyone’s had all night.”