Brick/Inception: Après Moi, le Deluge

[osaki_nana_707]

Title: Après Moi, le Deluge (23/24)
Author: osaki_nana_707
Fandom: Brick/Inception fusion
Word count: 3,786
Pairing: later Brendan(Arthur)xEames, mentions of BrendanxEmily and BrendanxLaura
Rating: R
Warnings: currently violence, language, mentions of character death
Summary: Brendan should have known better than to tug on loose threads. He should have known that one loose thread was all it took to make everything unravel, but he’d been tired and just wanted things to be done. He should have known well enough that things were never done.

Special thanks to wadebramwilson for betaing! <3



TWENTY-THREE

For several seconds, nobody moved. Everyone was caught off guard by the sudden shift in events, and more than a couple of Charlie's men were probably thinking Brendan was some sort of wizard. It just didn't seem possible that he could be that lucky. There was also the fact that they were essentially leaderless now, all of those who knew how to make the brand of somnacin they were planning on trafficking were presently and permanently quieted.

Brendan himself was just marveling over how amazing Brain's shot was.

He didn't have time to sit around and stare in wonder though, not with Eames currently bleeding to death beside him. He grabbed hold of the hilt of his knife and pulled it out of its sheath, awkwardly rearranging it to cut the ropes binding his wrists. It wouldn't be an easy task, given how limited his movements were, but the other men were starting to regain their composure over the absurd turn of events. As the gunshot stopped ringing in their ears they were surely realizing how ruined their operation was, and that meant their only condolence would be revenge.

Sure, he doubted they were entirely all that loyal to Charlie, but in Brendan's experience, drug dealers no matter how high profile would kill witnesses if they couldn't get their money. At least then they could leave without the bulls on their tails. He definitely didn't want them going after Brain, especially considering all the blood he'd already lost. He'd probably put all of his strength into that shot.

Brain needed medical attention. Eames definitely did. Brendan hadn't even gotten to the others yet.

With Charlie dead and John Wells dead, it should have seemed like a more favorable position, but it certainly wasn't. Then again, when did things ever go smoothly for Brendan?

He turned to look at Eames, his heart sinking when he realized that he hadn't moved even a centimeter. He was still breathing currently, but each breath was ragged and wet and shallow. If he lived through this… He didn't really like dwelling on the word if.

You should have worn the vest, Brendan thought bitterly to himself as he finally carved through one loop of the rope. He was sure his wrists were chafed from the ropes, possibly even bleeding considering the awkward angle of the knife, but all he cared about in that moment was getting through that one loop of rope and cutting into the next one.

Unfortunately, that was about as far as he got before the air around him erupted into a rage. It was not a cry of loyalty for their fallen boss, not by any means, but Brendan and Brain and Eames had cost them their jobs, and they were out for blood, and they had targets. Brendan tried to carve through the ropes faster but before he could even slice through half of it one of the men had grabbed him by the hair, tilted his head back, and pressed the blade of a knife to his throat.

Brendan didn't even breathe.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't slice open your neck," the man said, eyes alight with anger.

Before he could do anything else, there was a clattering off to Brendan's side and then a gun going off. The man made a short, choking sound, quickly releasing the knife, which clattered to the floor, leaving a shallow knick on Brendan's throat. The man grasped hopelessly at the blood gushing out from the bullet hole in his neck and collapsed heavily onto his knees, hands useless to stem the flow of blood.

"I'll give you two reasons," a strained voice said. "For one, you really should check and make sure your other victim is dead first… and two, you shouldn't just leave your boss's gun about, even if he did only let go of it because he's dead."

Brendan turned his head and let out a shaky breath as Eames, who had been cutting his ropes the entire time and had taken Charlie's pistol and thus killed Brendan's assailant, coughed a mouthful of blood and collapsed on top of Charlie's body.

"You asshole! You shouldn't even be moving!" Brendan shouted, finally managing to carve through another piece of the rope and get his hand free to untangle the rest from his wrists.

Eames responded with a weak chuckle, another mouthful of bubbly blood, and a wheeze. Clearly, he'd put all of his strength into that shot, and he wouldn't be of much use now. As much as Brendan wanted to panic, he knew now was not the time, so he threw himself out of his chair and onto the ground in the same second Charlie's men descended upon him. All he had was the knife, so he waved it blindly, trying to keep his head low and avoid the bullets. He took one to the shoulder and one to the leg, and it was as excruciating as it had been the first time he'd been shot, but he just tried not to focus on it. He was alone, and he had to fight his way out, and he couldn't allow himself the time to be hurt.

They were going after Brain, and Brendan would battle the very demons of Hell to protect him if need be.

"Brain!" he found himself shouting over the gunfire, even as he dragged Eames's body behind a table that had been flipped over in the chaos. "Run, Brain!"

He doubted he needed to tell him to do that, considering, but he wanted Brain to know that he was still alive, and he wanted to distract his pursuers. He left Eames behind the table, limping out and grabbing a rifle and aiming it. He hoped that it had been lost in the fray and not been thrown down because it was out of bullets.

A bullet grazed the side of his arm, and he could feel his clothes growing slick and heavy with blood, the wet warmth of exposed skin; his vision drifted in and out of focus. His shot leg buckled underneath his weight. Everything he had worked for, that everyone had worked for, that so many had died for, was quickly falling apart, and he was pretty sure he too was about to die here in this godforsaken place… but he'd be damned if he would go down without a fight.

He squeezed the trigger. It clicked uselessly. Fuck.

As a last resort, he took hold of the gun with both hands, prepared to beat his way through the onslaught, but before he had even lifted his arms, his attackers were going down. Brendan found himself collapsing to the floor on instinct alone, head spinning as the exploding sounds echoed off the walls of the building and the inside of his skull. It took him several seconds to even realize that there were people firing into the crowd of Charlie's men, protecting Brendan. He couldn't see the shooters, but he could see the other men going down, letting out frantic cries that could barely be heard over all of the other noise.

Three… no, four shooters. Maybe more.

Brendan didn't care because they were helping him, so he stayed down, arms going over his head. For several minutes, all Brendan could do was stay hunched there with the sound of gunfire ringing in his ears. He wanted to go back to where he'd safely stashed Eames, but the last thing he needed was another stray bullet in him. It was hard enough to keep conscious as it was. Despite the pain, Brendan pressed his hand to the bullet in his thigh, hissing out a breath between his gritted teeth as he tried to stop the blood flow.

He wasn't a praying man, but he prayed then and there for Eames and himself and everyone else to make it through all of this.

Suddenly, someone was grabbing him by the arm, and the next thing he heard was a familiar voice saying, "Come on, we have to go!"

"Cobb?" Brendan stammered, but he was already being half-dragged, half-carried out on Cobb's back, being demanded to hang on so he could keep firing. His shot arm ached whenever it was jostled against Cobb's body, but Brendan found it wasn't hurting as much. The pain hadn't diminished exactly, but it felt more distant, as if he was experiencing it through someone else.

Cobb was in terrible shape, beaten and bloodied. Brendan was sure his nose was broken just from the angle and the bruising, but he didn't seem bothered by it. His expression was that of pure determination as he fired at any who would dare try and stop them from getting out. Brendan managed to get his vision to clear enough that he could snag a pistol Cobb had tucked away in his belt and try to help him fight them off , but it still made him wonder how the hell he had even managed to escape.

He wanted to ask, but he couldn't cobble the words together in his mouth. Instead, what came out was, "What about Eames?"

"Russell's got him."

Cobb sounded far away. He had to blink several times to dispel tunnel vision, and when he fired another bullet it buried itself into a table nowhere close to where he was aiming… and yet still, all he could think was that Eames was probably in a hell of a lot worse shape than Brendan was right now. It would be a miracle if he was still…

Brendan realized the gun was no longer in his hand. He also realized they were no longer inside the warehouse because he could see sky above him. He was going in and out of consciousness and the fight was still raging, at least if the sounds he was hearing all around him were any indication. He lifted his head, realizing he was lying on the ground, and he found Cobb crouched next to him behind some (hopefully empty) oil drums, opening fire on the ones firing back at him. He could hear voices shouting even above the firefight, a few of them familiar but most of them not, and he saw Cobb look back at him, his golden hair falling in his eyes, and…

Brendan woke up.

He was in a strange bed with starched white sheets, staring up at a pale ceiling. It was quiet, too quiet to be blinking awake to after the chaos of what felt like seconds ago. Instinctively he reached for his pocket to check his totem only to realize he was in a hospital gown. The room certainly seemed to add evidence to the theory of being in a hospital, with its sterile white walls and tile floors. Machines were beeping nearby, keeping track of his vital signs, and the air was cold and smelled clean. There was a table with a few supplies in the corner with an uncomfortable looking chair in front of it. To the right of him was what he assumed to be a bathroom, as well as a door out into the hall. To the left of him was a window with a daybed underneath it where a book had been left by whoever had been there earlier. The television was on some sitcom at a low volume that he couldn't really hear and didn't really care about. The curtains were pulled shut, so he had no idea what time of day it was or any clue as to if he was even still in Nevada.

Telling himself not to panic, he sat up slowly, carefully. He looked down the front of his gown to see stitches and bandages in several places and found his legs to be in a similar state. His body ached whenever he attempted to move it, though he was still in significantly better shape than he had been after Johnny and his boys had tortured him…

Shit. He had to find his totem. He didn't know if this was real or if this was their doing. He hadn't been conscious for the end of the fight, if there even was one, and for all he knew, he could still be in that fucking warehouse and hooked up to a PASIV device. If that was true, then he seriously doubted that Cobb was alive. And Eames?...

Brendan pushed himself to the edge of the hospital bed, setting his feet carefully onto the tile. It was cold enough to send a shiver through his frame, but he took hold of his I.V. pole just the same and forced his protesting body to move forward. It took him several seconds just to adjust to the sheer amount of pain shooting up his injured leg when he stood on it, teeth gritting and eyes squinting shut. He did his best to keep most of his weight off of it.

He became aware of the fogginess in his head that only came from a cocktail of drugs as he proceeded towards the door, whatever he had been given leaving him sluggish. Real or not, he wasn't entirely sure going out into the hall was the best plan. He didn't have a weapon to fight back with if someone came after him, and even if he did he doubted he could use it effectively. Part of him was telling him to go back to bed and just wait, but he'd never been a patient person. He had to know what was going on, what had happened, where Brain was, and if Eames was alive. There was no way he could just sit back and hope someone delivered this information to him. He didn't care how much it hurt or how dizzy it made him. He was going to find someone.

Thankfully, someone came to find him before he could even reach for the doorknob. He jumped back and nearly stumbled as he was almost hit by the door as it swung open, and Mal was similarly surprised that he was standing there. "Oh!" she exclaimed and quickly went to his side to catch him so he wouldn't fall. "Careful, careful, or you'll rip your stitches."

"I'm fine," Brendan complained, even as she practically dragged him back to bed. He didn't fight her even though he wanted to, choosing instead to sit on the corner of the mattress. He couldn't tell if she was real or a dream, though he definitely doubted he'd have dreamed her this way. Mal was bruised, black-eyed, with strangle marks around her neck; obvious even under her make up. Her lip had split but the blood had long since been cleaned up. All in all, she was in poor shape, like Cobb had been, but she was on the mend.

"There now," she said, combing a hand through his hair. "You startled me a bit. I didn't expect you to even be awake just yet, much less up and moving. If I had been your doctor, you would have gotten a very stern talking to."

"What happened?" he asked. "Where are my clothes? Where's my…"

"If you hadn't been so determined to hunt someone down… at least, I'm assuming that's what you were doing… you would have found your things right here," Mal said with a smile as she stood and moved over to the table in the corner of the room. "Your clothes were cut off of you, I'm afraid, but I made sure no one touched what was in your pocket." She lifted a plastic bag off of the table, revealing his loaded die placed inside. "I even picked it up with tweezers, scout's honor."

She brought him the bag, and he accepted it thankfully. He didn't even have to ask for her to turn away so he could roll it a few times. It came up reality each and every time.

"So, what happened?" he asked again. "Where's Brain? Is he all right? What about Eames?"

"Brain is doing all right, considering the circumstances," Mal assured him as she moved to sit on the bed next to him. "He's got a lot of fight in him, that one. It was touch and go for a little while, but they say he'll mend. Last I heard, he was awake and complaining about how he'd have to teach himself how to type again."

"And Eames?"

"He's in surgery again. His second one. I won't know anything until the doctor comes out and tells us."

"How long have I been out for?"

"A day and a half, give or take."

Brendan nodded solemnly, looking down at his lap. "Everyone else?"

"Cuts and scrapes, bruises. Some bullets. We're all okay though. After Charlie was killed, it was easier to take his men down since they didn't have a leader to assemble behind. It was all pretty chaotic for a while, but we at least had the element of surprise on our side. After you passed out, out cavalry arrived. Apparently Eames gave a ring to anyone nearby that owed him a favor before the two of you stormed the place."

Brendan supposed that had been done when he was unconscious before, which seemed to be a running theme in his life lately. "How did you even escape? How did you get the weapons?"

"Oh, darling," Mal said, smiling warmly, "what do you take us for? Amateurs? We stole the weapons after your friend Brain came to find us and set us free. He's a real hero, that boy."

Brendan chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. "Fucking Brain… I told him to stay put, but I was probably barely out the door when he sneaked out. It's a miracle he's alive, bleeding like that."

"He did have to be given blood, but he is all right. He's been asking about you, and it's not surprising. Even with the bulletproof vest you were wearing, you took quite a few hits. Your body still wasn't at full strength either, considering the ordeal you went through back in London. I think he feared you might die this time around."

"He was probably pretty upset about that then."

"He said that if you did, he'd make sure you wouldn't leave behind a pretty corpse, if that's what you mean. Then he mumbled something about you being thick as what all and shook his head in disapproval."

"Sounds like him. Who would have thought he'd be that good of a fucking shot though? Christ… and without his specs on to top it off."

"He said that it was just a matter of doing the math and figuring out the trajectory… that and Charlie was never one to move about too much. "

Brendan sighed, running his hands over his face. He had a few of his own bruises there that ached when he touched them. "So, what's the wire? Are we all going to federal prison?"

"Not yet," Mal said, chuckling. "My father called in some favors too. The doctors and nurses here are paid off and sworn to secrecy to keep us hidden from the feds and anyone else who's got a problem with us. Papa warned us though that that's as far as his influence and his money can get us right now. It's best if we lay low for the time being, at least until the heat dies down. Dom and I are going on vacation, somewhere warm, and then we're going back to Paris and honing our skills… You're welcome to join us then, Brendan, if you like. The dreamshare community could use a mind like yours. With the proper time put in, you could be one of the best of the best."

"If you had asked me that on the day we met, I would have turned you down," Brendan said softly after a beat. "As it stands though, I don't really think there's any going back now. Brendan Frye caused too much trouble. Brendan Frye is dead."

"You could go back to your old life, Brendan. There's no such thing as 'no going back'."

He shook his head. "You're wrong. That's a world that's too small. It's a world I don't fit into anymore. You can say I can turn and go back the way I came, but I think you know that's a lie too. I can't just go back to being Brendan, the awkward loner eating lunch behind the portables. I've seen too much. I've changed a lot, I think, and… I don't think it suits me anymore."

"So, what are you going to do? Become someone else?" she asked, and she was smiling curiously, as if she expected this answer from him all along.

"I sort of feel like I already am," he said. "I can't unlearn what I've learned… and I can't stop dreaming now."

"There's nothing quite like it, is there?" Mal said.

"There isn't… and besides, I've never really been a hero type. I always end up doing something unethical, maybe even illegal, to get my way. I'm a selfish guy. I'm not meant for the pedestrian world. I want to be a dreamer."

"Well, then," Mal said, "I'll get you in contact with my father again, and you can be a bit of an apprentice to him, if you'd like, until Dom and I return. He'll need someone to fill in while Dom's gone after all, and I think you'd be the perfect match… It does beg the question though, who are you going to become if Brendan Frye is dead?"

"I thought Arthur would work out for me just fine," Brendan said with a smile.

She seemed to brighten a little at that. "Well, then, Arthur," she said, "perhaps you should lie down a bit longer and rest up. I'll bring you the news as I hear it, but you don't need to be up and about. I would hope that Arthur is better behaved than Brendan was."

"Not at all," Brendan said with a slight smirk. Mal kissed his forehead.

"Go to sleep, darling. You need to get your strength back so you can go and see Brain," she said. "I'll wake you if I hear anything about Eames."

Brendan felt a bubble of worry well up inside of him, but he tried not to let it show on his face. Had it been normal circumstances, he doubted he would have been able to sleep, but the different drugs he had pumping through his system made it easier. Within minutes, his eyes were falling closed, and darkness was taking him again.

He thought of Eames until he was asleep, though he'd never admit that out loud.

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