terminally ambivalent, fischer
(INCEPTION) ROBERT FISCHER
Rating: PG
Pairing/Character: Fischer
Fandom: Inception
Word Count: 1980
Warnings: spoilers for the movie (but we've all seen it more than once, right?)
Disclaimer: Yeah, no. I own nothing.
A/N: I don't know why this took me three days and nearly 2k words to write. For the inception_kink : Any or no pairing at all is fine, but my medical kink needs to see him sick and in need of treatment. Like, a high fever and a cough would be awesome. Housecall or hospital, it's up to you. I know it's weird, but I'm placing my hopes in you, Anon. Hope this is worth your hopes, anon it's not This is really just me, being silly and writing even sillier things :P
When Uncle Peter said, "You're not looking well, Robert. Perhaps you'd better take a break," Robert didn't think too much of it. He never got sick and this merger was an important one for his plans; he couldn't afford to slack off.
-
Robert sneezed.
-
The weather was terrible and Robert felt terrible and the world was an awful place in general. He had a headache that sent vicious little jabs to the center of his brain whenever he moved, which made it impossible to do anything more than moan pathetically into his pillow. His throat felt sore, his nose felt stuffy and sore, and his entire body felt like it had been tumbled around in a washing machine.
He couldn't get sick now, not when they were about to close the deal with Harrows Marketing, but Robert couldn't even get out of bed, much less sit in the boardroom for hours, talking business.
Robert dug the heel of his palm into his forehead, trying to will the pain away. When it continued pounding happily in his head, Robert dropped his hand and petulantly kicked at his blankets, causing pain to spike in his temple. Robert grimaced, then coughed, and sneezed, and his brain died a little bit more. Damn it.
He grasped for his phone under his pillow and dialed a number.
"Robert?"
"Uncle Peter," said Robert in a scratchy, wobbly voice. "I won't be able to make it today. Ah, I'm feeling a little bit under the weather."
Uncle Peter sighed. "Didn't I tell you to take it easy? I'll send the doctor for you and - "
"There's no need for that," Robert protested hastily, wincing when his head gave another twinge. The one thing he hated most in the world was when people fussed over him; Robert wasn't helpless and he got by excellently on his own. "I can take care of myself, Uncle Peter. But if you need me in the office - "
"We can handle this, Robert; just stay at home and rest. Are you sure you don't want me to call Dr. Jefferson?"
"Thank you but no," Robert insisted. "Well, if you've got everything in control..."
Uncle Peter assured him that they did and Robert hung up. He stared at the ceiling for a long time, thinking. He'd had days off before, and weeks of vacation, but he'd still brought his work with him. Robert couldn't imagine how to spend the day without it. By now, Uncle Peter must have told everyone in the office not to bother him while he recuperated and Robert felt strangely useless. He hated the feeling, especially since he was well-acquainted with it.
I'll just stay in bed then, Robert decided as he closed his eyes. The world stopped spinning. Sleep this damn cold away.
-
Robert woke up sometime around lunch, his clock helpfully informed, feeling hot all over and trembling. Robert groaned, rubbing at his face. He coughed feebly, slowly curling into a ball until his forehead touched his bare knees. He could feel the heat from his face, warmer than he expected, and Robert sniffled miserably.
He’d rather argue with asshole corporations than be sick any day.
His headache had become a dull but bearable throbbing at the back of his head. Robert figured that he’d get better eventually with a little sleep and some warm food. Yes, food. He wasn’t hungry - the thought of food was nauseating, actually - but the last time he’d eaten was lunch yesterday, and only a bite of salad at that. Robert mentally reviewed the contents of his pantry and decided that he could probably heat some chicken stock, add some vegetables, and have a warm belly. There was a bottle of painkillers in the bathroom, too, and the idea of taking a few pills and being unconscious for the rest of the day sounded highly appealing.
Food first, Robert thought as he wiped at his nose and grimaced at his hand. No, tissues first, then food, and then painkillers. Perfect. God, I hate being sick.
He rolled over on his back and blinked fuzzily at the ceiling. Robert’s vision was a little hazy at the edges. He stared upwards, listened to his breathing, snuffled, coughed, and shuddered. I probably need to get up before I can do all those things, Robert told himself and lay completely still. He wanted to get off the bed but couldn’t; he was too tired. Ironic, really, considering he’d done nothing but sleep.
"All right, you have to get up," Robert muttered to himself with a reluctant sigh. He placed his palms flat on the mattress and slowly hauled himself up. Robert grimaced and leaned against the headboard, breathing deeply. The room spun for a few moments and then righted itself. "Good, this is a start," he added after, smiling a little at his own foolishness. He remembered that he'd often talk to himself as a young child, all alone in the mansion while his parents went off to business meetings and charity events. Robert didn't think it had been too lonely as a boy, running through the long hallways and playing hide-and-seek with his nanny, the cook, the servants - it just had to end when his mother passed away.
Robert finally got off the bed, steadying himself with a hand against the wall. "Fuck, it's cold," he cursed and snagged the blankets from the bed. He padded to his dresser - carefully, sometimes tilting - and pulled out a jumper, slipping it on over his naked torso; he usually wore only boxers to sleep. Robert sniffled a few times, blearily making his way out of the room on unsteady feet.
The rest of the apartment was even colder than his room, long shadows trailing the walls. It was raining heavily outside and Robert glared mutinously at the abysmal weather, coughing. Robert finally stumbled into the kitchen, slapping his hand on the wall to flip on the switch.
It took longer than he would have liked to finally have the soup bubbling over the stove and Robert rested against the fridge, eyes half-closed and face flushed with fever. There was a box of tissues on his lap, half lying atop his mobile, and used up tissues on the floor. He couldn’t even be bothered to worry about the mess he was making. The headache was back with a vengeance and Robert tried keeping utterly still but it was no use, he kept on sneezing and coughing, causing pain to flare excruciatingly in his head. He wiped at his runny nose with a tissue and wearily dropped it on the growing pile next to him.
The kitchen light was harsh to his eyes and Robert tried keeping them open, blinking rapidly to help refocus his gaze. He’d never felt this bad before; the worst illness he’d had was a mild fever. He had a first aid kit - and a thermometer - somewhere but couldn’t remember where it was placed.
Robert picked up his mobile and stared at the screen. No messages, no calls, nothing for the entire day; it was frustrating. He couldn’t stop wondering how the meeting had gone - surely Uncle Peter would have called to tell him the good or bad news - and had sent countless messages to ask, or he would have, if Robert found the energy and desire to make voluntary movements. As it was, Robert thought that he would barely be able to get up (much less run) if some great disaster struck.
He was secretly fatalistic - a god awful trait to have as a businessman - and tried distracting himself with tragic scenarios. An earthquake, Robert mused as he closed his eyes (resting them only for a second, he said to no one in particular). Or a lucky thief could bypass the security system in the building, not to mention the ones in my flat, and steal my soup. Or be buried alive under the mountain of tissues I’m building if I don’t stop fucking sneezing. Robert gave a wet chuckle at his own ridiculous thoughts, feeling slightly better. Maybe a fire. Yeah, a fire is plausible, because I’m cooking and if I fall asleep -
Robert cracked his eyes open. A fire really was possible and the idea horrified him enough to actually stand up, grab his things, wobble to the island counter, and turn off the stove. The soup was bubbling furiously and Robert grabbed the dishcloth nearby and used it to wrap around the handle so he wouldn’t burn his hand. Robert wasn’t that sick to forget. He hefted the pot and poured some into the bowl he’d prepared earlier, arm trembling at the weight. When he was done, Robert was a little lightheaded and he huffed out an irritated breath, slumping on a stool in exhaustion.
He drew the blankets tighter over his shoulders and picked up the spoon. The soup wasn't vile, which was a rousing success considering he'd never cooked in his life - unless using the microwave or coffee pot counted as cooking. Robert wasn't completely amused to know that he was a walking rich boy cliché. His throat ached as he swallowed, another symptom to add to his miserable list.
Robert finished his soup quickly, despite the queasiness in his stomach, because cold soup sounded even less appealing than the thought of any kind of food.
-
Robert was coughing like a dying man by the time he’d fumbled for the bottle of Ibuprofen in his medicine cabinet. He squinted at the tiny writings on the back, grumbling about how the hell are people supposed to be able to read this if they’re already seeing double? and uncapping the top. He dry-swallowed the tablet and glared at his reflection - wild bloodshot eyes, nose like a tomato, hair a dreadful mess, sleep lines still on his cheeks - for having the audacity to get sick. “Never again, Robert,” he said out loud with conviction. He splashed a little water on his face; blessedly cool against his feverish skin.
He left the bathroom and all but collapsed on the bed. The mattress bounced at his sudden drop, making him nauseas, and Robert groaned in an utterly wretched manner into his blankets. He dragged himself up the bed and burrowed under the covers, trying to calm his rioting head and stomach. He reached for his phone - and box of tissues - and brought them into his cocoon. He sniffled as he called Uncle Peter and his voice was even croakier than that morning. “Uncle Peter, it’s Robert. Could you…ah, buy me a few things this afternoon?” He glanced wryly at the box as he pulled out the last tissue. Better to ask Uncle Peter for help than anyone else; the man was like a second father to him, not a stranger at all. “No, no, I’m all right here. No need for Dr. Jefferson or the hospital. I’m certain of it, Uncle Peter. By the way, how did the meeting go? I…see…so Mr. Schaffer rescheduled because he was sick?” God, Robert had to laugh at the irony of that (actually, he sneezed). “I don’t know whether to be glad or not. I think I’ll go back to sleep, actually. You really don’t need me there?”
Robert ended the call with a slight smile. At least the meeting was a load off his shoulders. He wiped his nose and pushed aside his mobile and tissues. Robert let out a shaky sigh, rubbing at one eye and then the other, breathing scratchily in the warmth of his shelter. He hunched into himself, eyes closing and breathing a tad easier than before as he finally succumbed to fatigue (and he dreamt, feverish dreams of his childhood and being chased around the snowy mountaintops and stairs that went on forever before abruptly ending; but these dreams he probably won’t remember).
-
Rating: PG
Pairing/Character: Fischer
Fandom: Inception
Word Count: 1980
Warnings: spoilers for the movie (but we've all seen it more than once, right?)
Disclaimer: Yeah, no. I own nothing.
A/N: I don't know why this took me three days and nearly 2k words to write. For the inception_kink : Any or no pairing at all is fine, but my medical kink needs to see him sick and in need of treatment. Like, a high fever and a cough would be awesome. Housecall or hospital, it's up to you. I know it's weird, but I'm placing my hopes in you, Anon. Hope this is worth your hopes, anon it's not This is really just me, being silly and writing even sillier things :P
When Uncle Peter said, "You're not looking well, Robert. Perhaps you'd better take a break," Robert didn't think too much of it. He never got sick and this merger was an important one for his plans; he couldn't afford to slack off.
-
Robert sneezed.
-
The weather was terrible and Robert felt terrible and the world was an awful place in general. He had a headache that sent vicious little jabs to the center of his brain whenever he moved, which made it impossible to do anything more than moan pathetically into his pillow. His throat felt sore, his nose felt stuffy and sore, and his entire body felt like it had been tumbled around in a washing machine.
He couldn't get sick now, not when they were about to close the deal with Harrows Marketing, but Robert couldn't even get out of bed, much less sit in the boardroom for hours, talking business.
Robert dug the heel of his palm into his forehead, trying to will the pain away. When it continued pounding happily in his head, Robert dropped his hand and petulantly kicked at his blankets, causing pain to spike in his temple. Robert grimaced, then coughed, and sneezed, and his brain died a little bit more. Damn it.
He grasped for his phone under his pillow and dialed a number.
"Robert?"
"Uncle Peter," said Robert in a scratchy, wobbly voice. "I won't be able to make it today. Ah, I'm feeling a little bit under the weather."
Uncle Peter sighed. "Didn't I tell you to take it easy? I'll send the doctor for you and - "
"There's no need for that," Robert protested hastily, wincing when his head gave another twinge. The one thing he hated most in the world was when people fussed over him; Robert wasn't helpless and he got by excellently on his own. "I can take care of myself, Uncle Peter. But if you need me in the office - "
"We can handle this, Robert; just stay at home and rest. Are you sure you don't want me to call Dr. Jefferson?"
"Thank you but no," Robert insisted. "Well, if you've got everything in control..."
Uncle Peter assured him that they did and Robert hung up. He stared at the ceiling for a long time, thinking. He'd had days off before, and weeks of vacation, but he'd still brought his work with him. Robert couldn't imagine how to spend the day without it. By now, Uncle Peter must have told everyone in the office not to bother him while he recuperated and Robert felt strangely useless. He hated the feeling, especially since he was well-acquainted with it.
I'll just stay in bed then, Robert decided as he closed his eyes. The world stopped spinning. Sleep this damn cold away.
-
Robert woke up sometime around lunch, his clock helpfully informed, feeling hot all over and trembling. Robert groaned, rubbing at his face. He coughed feebly, slowly curling into a ball until his forehead touched his bare knees. He could feel the heat from his face, warmer than he expected, and Robert sniffled miserably.
He’d rather argue with asshole corporations than be sick any day.
His headache had become a dull but bearable throbbing at the back of his head. Robert figured that he’d get better eventually with a little sleep and some warm food. Yes, food. He wasn’t hungry - the thought of food was nauseating, actually - but the last time he’d eaten was lunch yesterday, and only a bite of salad at that. Robert mentally reviewed the contents of his pantry and decided that he could probably heat some chicken stock, add some vegetables, and have a warm belly. There was a bottle of painkillers in the bathroom, too, and the idea of taking a few pills and being unconscious for the rest of the day sounded highly appealing.
Food first, Robert thought as he wiped at his nose and grimaced at his hand. No, tissues first, then food, and then painkillers. Perfect. God, I hate being sick.
He rolled over on his back and blinked fuzzily at the ceiling. Robert’s vision was a little hazy at the edges. He stared upwards, listened to his breathing, snuffled, coughed, and shuddered. I probably need to get up before I can do all those things, Robert told himself and lay completely still. He wanted to get off the bed but couldn’t; he was too tired. Ironic, really, considering he’d done nothing but sleep.
"All right, you have to get up," Robert muttered to himself with a reluctant sigh. He placed his palms flat on the mattress and slowly hauled himself up. Robert grimaced and leaned against the headboard, breathing deeply. The room spun for a few moments and then righted itself. "Good, this is a start," he added after, smiling a little at his own foolishness. He remembered that he'd often talk to himself as a young child, all alone in the mansion while his parents went off to business meetings and charity events. Robert didn't think it had been too lonely as a boy, running through the long hallways and playing hide-and-seek with his nanny, the cook, the servants - it just had to end when his mother passed away.
Robert finally got off the bed, steadying himself with a hand against the wall. "Fuck, it's cold," he cursed and snagged the blankets from the bed. He padded to his dresser - carefully, sometimes tilting - and pulled out a jumper, slipping it on over his naked torso; he usually wore only boxers to sleep. Robert sniffled a few times, blearily making his way out of the room on unsteady feet.
The rest of the apartment was even colder than his room, long shadows trailing the walls. It was raining heavily outside and Robert glared mutinously at the abysmal weather, coughing. Robert finally stumbled into the kitchen, slapping his hand on the wall to flip on the switch.
It took longer than he would have liked to finally have the soup bubbling over the stove and Robert rested against the fridge, eyes half-closed and face flushed with fever. There was a box of tissues on his lap, half lying atop his mobile, and used up tissues on the floor. He couldn’t even be bothered to worry about the mess he was making. The headache was back with a vengeance and Robert tried keeping utterly still but it was no use, he kept on sneezing and coughing, causing pain to flare excruciatingly in his head. He wiped at his runny nose with a tissue and wearily dropped it on the growing pile next to him.
The kitchen light was harsh to his eyes and Robert tried keeping them open, blinking rapidly to help refocus his gaze. He’d never felt this bad before; the worst illness he’d had was a mild fever. He had a first aid kit - and a thermometer - somewhere but couldn’t remember where it was placed.
Robert picked up his mobile and stared at the screen. No messages, no calls, nothing for the entire day; it was frustrating. He couldn’t stop wondering how the meeting had gone - surely Uncle Peter would have called to tell him the good or bad news - and had sent countless messages to ask, or he would have, if Robert found the energy and desire to make voluntary movements. As it was, Robert thought that he would barely be able to get up (much less run) if some great disaster struck.
He was secretly fatalistic - a god awful trait to have as a businessman - and tried distracting himself with tragic scenarios. An earthquake, Robert mused as he closed his eyes (resting them only for a second, he said to no one in particular). Or a lucky thief could bypass the security system in the building, not to mention the ones in my flat, and steal my soup. Or be buried alive under the mountain of tissues I’m building if I don’t stop fucking sneezing. Robert gave a wet chuckle at his own ridiculous thoughts, feeling slightly better. Maybe a fire. Yeah, a fire is plausible, because I’m cooking and if I fall asleep -
Robert cracked his eyes open. A fire really was possible and the idea horrified him enough to actually stand up, grab his things, wobble to the island counter, and turn off the stove. The soup was bubbling furiously and Robert grabbed the dishcloth nearby and used it to wrap around the handle so he wouldn’t burn his hand. Robert wasn’t that sick to forget. He hefted the pot and poured some into the bowl he’d prepared earlier, arm trembling at the weight. When he was done, Robert was a little lightheaded and he huffed out an irritated breath, slumping on a stool in exhaustion.
He drew the blankets tighter over his shoulders and picked up the spoon. The soup wasn't vile, which was a rousing success considering he'd never cooked in his life - unless using the microwave or coffee pot counted as cooking. Robert wasn't completely amused to know that he was a walking rich boy cliché. His throat ached as he swallowed, another symptom to add to his miserable list.
Robert finished his soup quickly, despite the queasiness in his stomach, because cold soup sounded even less appealing than the thought of any kind of food.
-
Robert was coughing like a dying man by the time he’d fumbled for the bottle of Ibuprofen in his medicine cabinet. He squinted at the tiny writings on the back, grumbling about how the hell are people supposed to be able to read this if they’re already seeing double? and uncapping the top. He dry-swallowed the tablet and glared at his reflection - wild bloodshot eyes, nose like a tomato, hair a dreadful mess, sleep lines still on his cheeks - for having the audacity to get sick. “Never again, Robert,” he said out loud with conviction. He splashed a little water on his face; blessedly cool against his feverish skin.
He left the bathroom and all but collapsed on the bed. The mattress bounced at his sudden drop, making him nauseas, and Robert groaned in an utterly wretched manner into his blankets. He dragged himself up the bed and burrowed under the covers, trying to calm his rioting head and stomach. He reached for his phone - and box of tissues - and brought them into his cocoon. He sniffled as he called Uncle Peter and his voice was even croakier than that morning. “Uncle Peter, it’s Robert. Could you…ah, buy me a few things this afternoon?” He glanced wryly at the box as he pulled out the last tissue. Better to ask Uncle Peter for help than anyone else; the man was like a second father to him, not a stranger at all. “No, no, I’m all right here. No need for Dr. Jefferson or the hospital. I’m certain of it, Uncle Peter. By the way, how did the meeting go? I…see…so Mr. Schaffer rescheduled because he was sick?” God, Robert had to laugh at the irony of that (actually, he sneezed). “I don’t know whether to be glad or not. I think I’ll go back to sleep, actually. You really don’t need me there?”
Robert ended the call with a slight smile. At least the meeting was a load off his shoulders. He wiped his nose and pushed aside his mobile and tissues. Robert let out a shaky sigh, rubbing at one eye and then the other, breathing scratchily in the warmth of his shelter. He hunched into himself, eyes closing and breathing a tad easier than before as he finally succumbed to fatigue (and he dreamt, feverish dreams of his childhood and being chased around the snowy mountaintops and stairs that went on forever before abruptly ending; but these dreams he probably won’t remember).
-