Inception Fic: 5 Habits
Hello, darling friends! I wrote a fill on inception_kink, and even though I should really stop filling prompts and start concentrating more on my Big Bang.... eh. At least it keeps the creative juices flowing.
Title: 5 Habits
Pairing: Arthur/Cobb partnership; PG
Prompt: 5 Habits Cobb Has That Have To Do With Arthur
- - -
I.
Cobb took Mal’s totem as his own after her death, but it was a while before he became accustomed to it. He still found himself groping for his own totem upon awakening and was startled to feel the cool metal of the top instead. Sometimes he did not trust it, or was not patient enough to wait for it to topple.
That’s when it started.
They were practicing for an extraction, a rather simple job. The dreamscape was complicated, but realistic enough that they each felt the need to check their totems when they woke.
Cobb blinked into reality and fished for the top in his pocket. He saw Arthur rousing beside him, slightly groggy from the long time under but still aware enough to immediately go for his totem, as well. Nash was already packing up the PASIV device for the day.
Cobb sat up in his chair and turned to the nearby desk. He spun the top and waited, fidgeting as he watched it go round and round, precariously balanced and not even wavering yet. He glanced over at Arthur and saw that he was already up and about, apparently convinced of the reality of this world. Cobb bit his lip and eyed the top. It was still spinning.
Cobb fidgeted. He tapped his foot. He watched with worried eyes as Nash bid Arthur farewell, as Arthur slipped his suit jacket on and packed up his briefcase, preparing to leave for the day.
The top wobbled.
Arthur was almost to the door before Cobb caught up to him, slightly out of breath and looking rather desperate, top clutched in one hand.
“I need a favor,” Cobb said, and Arthur listened to the request with growing understanding before he finally acquiesced.
The next day when they woke from their practice run, Arthur did not even remove his IV before fishing out his totem and rolling it on the ground, once, twice, three times just to be safe. Satisfied, he removed his line and moved to the desk, deliberately passing close by Cobb’s chair and brushing light fingers against Cobb’s shoulder as he passed. Cobb closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief, and only then did he spin the top onto the floor and patiently wait for it to topple.
This went on for so long that everyone who worked with them began to notice, but no one ever commented on it. Instead the habit became a sort of reality check for everyone involved in the dream, and the brief contact between Cobb and Arthur was one of the only sure signs that the world they were in was real.
II.
At 7:45 PM on Saturday evening, Arthur’s cell phone rang.
Arthur did not rush to answer it. He did not even check the caller ID. He set down his book and reached calmly for the phone in his suitcase, flipped it open, and said, “Hello, Phillipa.”
Barely smothered giggles greeted him from the other end of the line and he allowed himself a smile.
“How did you know it was me this time?” Phillipa asked.
“Your brother called last week,” Arthur said. “I figured your dad would want you to take turns.”
“But I wanted to surprise you!”
“Nothing surprises me, remember?”
“Oh yeah.” More giggles, and Arthur could hear Cobb in the background, telling Phillipa what to say.
“Daddy wants to know where you are,” she said.
“Tell him I’m in an airport, waiting for a flight to Madrid,” Arthur said, letting Cobb add on the unspoken “for a job” himself.
Ever since being reunited with his children, Cobb had been more and more unwilling to leave the country for jobs, so he had (rather grudgingly) told Arthur that if any international jobs caught his interest, he was welcome to take them on his own. It was strange for them both, as neither had worked without the other in years. Arthur still found himself adjusting to other extractors’ methods and wishing for Cobb’s neat precision and imagination.
Arthur could hear Cobb talking in the background again, and then Phillipa reported, “He says he isn’t happy you left without telling him.”
“Tell him he shouldn’t worry at his age, he’ll give himself a heart attack.”
“He says you shouldn’t worry at your age, you’ll have a heart attack,” Phillipa said, still speaking mostly into the mouthpiece. Arthur heard Cobb laugh and then he heard James’ squeaky little voice saying he wanted to talk to Uncle Arthur, too.
“I have to go now. It’s James’ turn,” Phillipa said. “Good night, Uncle Arthur!” And she made a kissing noise into the phone.
“Good night, Phillipa,” Arthur said, and then James came on the phone and told Arthur about the moat he dug around his mud castle that day and how he wished Arthur had been there to play horsey with him and how he did not want to go to bed but his daddy was telling him to even though he was not tired.
After a good night and phone-kiss from James, Cobb came on the line.
“Madrid, huh?” he said.
“I’ll be working with Eames, if that makes you feel any better.”
Cobb grunted. “When will you be back?”
“Not for about a month.”
There was a pause, and then Cobb said, “There’s a nine hour time difference, right?”
“Yes.”
“Same time next week, then.”
Arthur smiled. “I’ll wait for your call.”
III.
Cobb entered the little warehouse around five-thirty, his mind still foggy with sleep. The sun was barely peeking over the tops of the buildings and the city was bathed in a misty gray morning light, but Cobb could hear the rest of his team moving around inside, awaiting him and - more importantly - the coffee he was carrying.
“Finally,” Ariadne breathed, walking right up to him and stealing the Starbucks cup marked with a small black A. She sipped it and sighed. “Thanks, Cobb.”
“This is almost torture, you know,” Eames said as he came up and grabbed his cup from the tray. “Getting us up at these unearthly hours for no apparent reason. I should just quit.”
“We’ve got a lot of work to do before the job tonight,” Cobb said, setting the tray down on the desk and cradling his own cup in his hands. It was blissfully warm against his fingers. “We needed the early start and you know it.”
Eames rolled his eyes, then nodded at the tray on the desk. “Who’s that last cup for?”
Cobb blinked and looked down at the tray. Sure enough, there was one last Starbucks cup, lonely and steaming in its holder. Cobb did not have to lift the lid to know it contained strong black coffee, with just a hint of sugar. Cobb had ordered that coffee too many times to count.
“Um,” he said, slightly embarrassed. “It’s for Arthur.”
“Cobb, Arthur is in Japan working on that job for Saito,” Ariadne said slowly, as though she feared for Cobb’s sanity. He shot her an exasperated look.
“I know that,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s just… it’s early, and I must have gone on autopilot while I was ordering. Sorry.”
“So no one’s claiming that coffee?” Eames asked.
“I guess not.”
“Dibs,” Eames said, and tipped his head back to drain his own cup.
IV.
Cobb was pissed. Not the American version of pissed, but the British version, the version that meant he had lost himself in whiskey and scotch and tequila and just about any other alcoholic beverage the bartender decided to treat him with.
He was in a dark and seedy bar. His vision kept going blurry and he had felt like he was going to throw up a couple of times but he never did. He fumbled in his pocket and placed two things on the bar: a small silver top and his cell phone. He set the top spinning and speed-dialed a number on the phone.
It rang six times before someone answered.
“Where are you?”
“Not even a greeting, Arthur? ‘m appalled,” Cobb slurred merrily into the phone.
“I know what day it is, Cobb. And I know what you’re doing. It’s the same thing you do every year on your anniversary. Now answer the question: where are you?”
Cobb had mixed feelings about all of that. Part of him was touched that Arthur knew him so well and wanted to make sure he was okay. Another part was pissed (the American version this time) that Arthur had the audacity to accuse him of doing this every year, even if it was true. And yet another part was just happy to hear his voice, as angry as it sounded.
“Los Angeles.”
“I gathered that. Which bar?”
“A dark one.”
“Cobb…”
“All right, all right.” Cobb reached across the bar and picked up a small book of matches. He squinted at it and read the name off to Arthur.
“I can be there in five minutes. Do you want me to stay on the phone?”
Cobb did not even hesitate before he said, “Yes.”
The top had stopped spinning a while ago and Cobb scooped it up and dropped it into his pocket.
“It’s still real,” he said.
“I know.” Cobb heard a car door slam, then Arthur telling a taxi driver where to go and to get there fast.
“She’s still dead.”
“I know, Cobb.”
“Seven years.” Cobb closed his eyes and world spun around him. He wished he had not taken that eighth shot of tequila. “She’s been gone for seven years.” There was no reply from the other end of the line but Cobb knew Arthur was listening because Arthur always listened. “Arthur?”
“Yeah?”
“How are James and Phillipa?”
“I put them to bed around ten. Miles is staying with them now.”
“Good.” Cobb lowered his head onto the bar and stayed quiet for a while, the phone still held to his ear. He could hear Arthur talking to the cabbie. He heard him say thanks, and then a car door opened and then the door to the bar opened and then Arthur was at his side, gently taking Cobb’s phone and sliding it into his coat pocket with his own. He slipped an arm around Cobb’s shoulders.
“Let’s get you home,” he said, and Cobb stood and leaned against Arthur and remembered that this, this right here, was the reason he called his point man every year on his anniversary.
V.
Cobb hated being an old man. He hated the stiffness of his joints and the random pains. He hated his weak teeth and even weaker eyes. He hated that he rarely saw his children anymore, since they were across the country with their spouses and families and could only visit on holidays. He hated that he never dreamed anymore, not even with the help of somnacin.
And most of all, he hated the twelfth of August.
The summer sun beat down relentlessly on his old car and made him sweat in his stuffy black suit. He drove slowly and carefully because his reflexes were not what they used to be. He got honked at once but he was used to that.
He made a left turn, then a right, and then he parked. He got out and straightened his suit and grabbed the flowers from the backseat. He walked through the gates and breathed in the smell of summer and early morning mist, dissipating rapidly before the August sun.
A left at the tallest oak, down the path and into the shady corner.
Cobb stood silently in front of the grave and stared. Emotion curled in his stomach, rage burning in his gut like an elderly lion roused from its slumber, growling and fierce but weakened with time. If Cobb closed his eyes and concentrated he imagined he could still hear the gunshots, could see the pain in those dark eyes, could smell the sharp tang of too much blood, could see that it was hopeless.
He stooped painfully and placed the flowers by the grave. He brushed some dirt from the name and felt something warm and wet trickle down his wrinkled face. He smiled sadly at the carved marble and rested his hand on it, like he would on a good friend’s shoulder.
“Happy Birthday, Arthur,” he whispered. “I’ll see you again next year.”
- - -
Title: 5 Habits
Pairing: Arthur/Cobb partnership; PG
Prompt: 5 Habits Cobb Has That Have To Do With Arthur
- - -
I.
Cobb took Mal’s totem as his own after her death, but it was a while before he became accustomed to it. He still found himself groping for his own totem upon awakening and was startled to feel the cool metal of the top instead. Sometimes he did not trust it, or was not patient enough to wait for it to topple.
That’s when it started.
They were practicing for an extraction, a rather simple job. The dreamscape was complicated, but realistic enough that they each felt the need to check their totems when they woke.
Cobb blinked into reality and fished for the top in his pocket. He saw Arthur rousing beside him, slightly groggy from the long time under but still aware enough to immediately go for his totem, as well. Nash was already packing up the PASIV device for the day.
Cobb sat up in his chair and turned to the nearby desk. He spun the top and waited, fidgeting as he watched it go round and round, precariously balanced and not even wavering yet. He glanced over at Arthur and saw that he was already up and about, apparently convinced of the reality of this world. Cobb bit his lip and eyed the top. It was still spinning.
Cobb fidgeted. He tapped his foot. He watched with worried eyes as Nash bid Arthur farewell, as Arthur slipped his suit jacket on and packed up his briefcase, preparing to leave for the day.
The top wobbled.
Arthur was almost to the door before Cobb caught up to him, slightly out of breath and looking rather desperate, top clutched in one hand.
“I need a favor,” Cobb said, and Arthur listened to the request with growing understanding before he finally acquiesced.
The next day when they woke from their practice run, Arthur did not even remove his IV before fishing out his totem and rolling it on the ground, once, twice, three times just to be safe. Satisfied, he removed his line and moved to the desk, deliberately passing close by Cobb’s chair and brushing light fingers against Cobb’s shoulder as he passed. Cobb closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief, and only then did he spin the top onto the floor and patiently wait for it to topple.
This went on for so long that everyone who worked with them began to notice, but no one ever commented on it. Instead the habit became a sort of reality check for everyone involved in the dream, and the brief contact between Cobb and Arthur was one of the only sure signs that the world they were in was real.
II.
At 7:45 PM on Saturday evening, Arthur’s cell phone rang.
Arthur did not rush to answer it. He did not even check the caller ID. He set down his book and reached calmly for the phone in his suitcase, flipped it open, and said, “Hello, Phillipa.”
Barely smothered giggles greeted him from the other end of the line and he allowed himself a smile.
“How did you know it was me this time?” Phillipa asked.
“Your brother called last week,” Arthur said. “I figured your dad would want you to take turns.”
“But I wanted to surprise you!”
“Nothing surprises me, remember?”
“Oh yeah.” More giggles, and Arthur could hear Cobb in the background, telling Phillipa what to say.
“Daddy wants to know where you are,” she said.
“Tell him I’m in an airport, waiting for a flight to Madrid,” Arthur said, letting Cobb add on the unspoken “for a job” himself.
Ever since being reunited with his children, Cobb had been more and more unwilling to leave the country for jobs, so he had (rather grudgingly) told Arthur that if any international jobs caught his interest, he was welcome to take them on his own. It was strange for them both, as neither had worked without the other in years. Arthur still found himself adjusting to other extractors’ methods and wishing for Cobb’s neat precision and imagination.
Arthur could hear Cobb talking in the background again, and then Phillipa reported, “He says he isn’t happy you left without telling him.”
“Tell him he shouldn’t worry at his age, he’ll give himself a heart attack.”
“He says you shouldn’t worry at your age, you’ll have a heart attack,” Phillipa said, still speaking mostly into the mouthpiece. Arthur heard Cobb laugh and then he heard James’ squeaky little voice saying he wanted to talk to Uncle Arthur, too.
“I have to go now. It’s James’ turn,” Phillipa said. “Good night, Uncle Arthur!” And she made a kissing noise into the phone.
“Good night, Phillipa,” Arthur said, and then James came on the phone and told Arthur about the moat he dug around his mud castle that day and how he wished Arthur had been there to play horsey with him and how he did not want to go to bed but his daddy was telling him to even though he was not tired.
After a good night and phone-kiss from James, Cobb came on the line.
“Madrid, huh?” he said.
“I’ll be working with Eames, if that makes you feel any better.”
Cobb grunted. “When will you be back?”
“Not for about a month.”
There was a pause, and then Cobb said, “There’s a nine hour time difference, right?”
“Yes.”
“Same time next week, then.”
Arthur smiled. “I’ll wait for your call.”
III.
Cobb entered the little warehouse around five-thirty, his mind still foggy with sleep. The sun was barely peeking over the tops of the buildings and the city was bathed in a misty gray morning light, but Cobb could hear the rest of his team moving around inside, awaiting him and - more importantly - the coffee he was carrying.
“Finally,” Ariadne breathed, walking right up to him and stealing the Starbucks cup marked with a small black A. She sipped it and sighed. “Thanks, Cobb.”
“This is almost torture, you know,” Eames said as he came up and grabbed his cup from the tray. “Getting us up at these unearthly hours for no apparent reason. I should just quit.”
“We’ve got a lot of work to do before the job tonight,” Cobb said, setting the tray down on the desk and cradling his own cup in his hands. It was blissfully warm against his fingers. “We needed the early start and you know it.”
Eames rolled his eyes, then nodded at the tray on the desk. “Who’s that last cup for?”
Cobb blinked and looked down at the tray. Sure enough, there was one last Starbucks cup, lonely and steaming in its holder. Cobb did not have to lift the lid to know it contained strong black coffee, with just a hint of sugar. Cobb had ordered that coffee too many times to count.
“Um,” he said, slightly embarrassed. “It’s for Arthur.”
“Cobb, Arthur is in Japan working on that job for Saito,” Ariadne said slowly, as though she feared for Cobb’s sanity. He shot her an exasperated look.
“I know that,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s just… it’s early, and I must have gone on autopilot while I was ordering. Sorry.”
“So no one’s claiming that coffee?” Eames asked.
“I guess not.”
“Dibs,” Eames said, and tipped his head back to drain his own cup.
IV.
Cobb was pissed. Not the American version of pissed, but the British version, the version that meant he had lost himself in whiskey and scotch and tequila and just about any other alcoholic beverage the bartender decided to treat him with.
He was in a dark and seedy bar. His vision kept going blurry and he had felt like he was going to throw up a couple of times but he never did. He fumbled in his pocket and placed two things on the bar: a small silver top and his cell phone. He set the top spinning and speed-dialed a number on the phone.
It rang six times before someone answered.
“Where are you?”
“Not even a greeting, Arthur? ‘m appalled,” Cobb slurred merrily into the phone.
“I know what day it is, Cobb. And I know what you’re doing. It’s the same thing you do every year on your anniversary. Now answer the question: where are you?”
Cobb had mixed feelings about all of that. Part of him was touched that Arthur knew him so well and wanted to make sure he was okay. Another part was pissed (the American version this time) that Arthur had the audacity to accuse him of doing this every year, even if it was true. And yet another part was just happy to hear his voice, as angry as it sounded.
“Los Angeles.”
“I gathered that. Which bar?”
“A dark one.”
“Cobb…”
“All right, all right.” Cobb reached across the bar and picked up a small book of matches. He squinted at it and read the name off to Arthur.
“I can be there in five minutes. Do you want me to stay on the phone?”
Cobb did not even hesitate before he said, “Yes.”
The top had stopped spinning a while ago and Cobb scooped it up and dropped it into his pocket.
“It’s still real,” he said.
“I know.” Cobb heard a car door slam, then Arthur telling a taxi driver where to go and to get there fast.
“She’s still dead.”
“I know, Cobb.”
“Seven years.” Cobb closed his eyes and world spun around him. He wished he had not taken that eighth shot of tequila. “She’s been gone for seven years.” There was no reply from the other end of the line but Cobb knew Arthur was listening because Arthur always listened. “Arthur?”
“Yeah?”
“How are James and Phillipa?”
“I put them to bed around ten. Miles is staying with them now.”
“Good.” Cobb lowered his head onto the bar and stayed quiet for a while, the phone still held to his ear. He could hear Arthur talking to the cabbie. He heard him say thanks, and then a car door opened and then the door to the bar opened and then Arthur was at his side, gently taking Cobb’s phone and sliding it into his coat pocket with his own. He slipped an arm around Cobb’s shoulders.
“Let’s get you home,” he said, and Cobb stood and leaned against Arthur and remembered that this, this right here, was the reason he called his point man every year on his anniversary.
V.
Cobb hated being an old man. He hated the stiffness of his joints and the random pains. He hated his weak teeth and even weaker eyes. He hated that he rarely saw his children anymore, since they were across the country with their spouses and families and could only visit on holidays. He hated that he never dreamed anymore, not even with the help of somnacin.
And most of all, he hated the twelfth of August.
The summer sun beat down relentlessly on his old car and made him sweat in his stuffy black suit. He drove slowly and carefully because his reflexes were not what they used to be. He got honked at once but he was used to that.
He made a left turn, then a right, and then he parked. He got out and straightened his suit and grabbed the flowers from the backseat. He walked through the gates and breathed in the smell of summer and early morning mist, dissipating rapidly before the August sun.
A left at the tallest oak, down the path and into the shady corner.
Cobb stood silently in front of the grave and stared. Emotion curled in his stomach, rage burning in his gut like an elderly lion roused from its slumber, growling and fierce but weakened with time. If Cobb closed his eyes and concentrated he imagined he could still hear the gunshots, could see the pain in those dark eyes, could smell the sharp tang of too much blood, could see that it was hopeless.
He stooped painfully and placed the flowers by the grave. He brushed some dirt from the name and felt something warm and wet trickle down his wrinkled face. He smiled sadly at the carved marble and rested his hand on it, like he would on a good friend’s shoulder.
“Happy Birthday, Arthur,” he whispered. “I’ll see you again next year.”
- - -