inception: out of our heads (on skelp): (1/1)
title; out of our heads (on skelp)
author; fiveto_midnight
rating; pg
character(s); arthur, robert fischer jr, (vaguely implied arthur/eames, i guess?)
word count; 994
disclaimer; nope. don't own a thing here.
notes; i have no idea, like literally no idea. i don’t even know if this makes sense? arthur-centric, anyhow. critic is greatly appreciated, since i really don’t have any idea, or any concrete idea of how to write the characters, haha.
summary; (au) arthur and robert, limbo.
Monday is chilly, rainy. It is grey and Arthur crushes the cigarette underneath his boot by the corner of the building. Annoyance creeps in his mind, he’s not really thinking. Maybe that’s just the first sign of insanity. Or maybe not being able to dream is (how are you supposed to dream when it is the only thing you can currently do. there is no such thing as a dream within a dream. not in limbo.)
It’s hard, nowadays, to draw the line and form a distinct yes or no, everything blurs together harshly.
A last curl of cigarette smoke is whisked away by the wind, harsh, marrow deep. Arthur watches it go, and he feels tired. “Too old for this shit,” he mutters.
“Too old for what?” Robert asks. The tone suggests mildness, as if that’s what Arthur needs-the quality that might have been used whilst chiding a child.
Arthur knows the texture of his voice doesn’t match the edge in his eyes. So he turns, nails tugging gently in the seam of his pocket, the small gesture distracting him from fumbling after words that doesn’t fit here.
After a minute that drags on and on Arthur might have repeated i’m too old for this shit, because that’s really how he feels. But it’s genuine, and neither has time (the truth is they have too much time, so by some fucked up logic, this is entirely too little time) for sweet talk or afternoon coffee.
The world is a knife, even Arthur can taste silver or copper on his tongue as the world splits and divides when Ariadne arrives.
Truth is, Ariadne doesn’t arrive. But there is something about Limbo and what subtle things it does to your mind, one thing at a time, that makes Arthur’s subconscious spin out of control at times.
Little things, baby steps, things that even Arthur isn’t able to keep track of.
The first few, what has to be months, he’s able to stay on his own. Sketch out dreamscapes that defies even the laws Arthur abides by. But this is Limbo, and as reality has taken a long term vacation, there aren’t any rules, no laws.
Robert finds him.
They’re locked in a building that resembles Fischer Enterprises, with innards that change from the Pentagon to the Eiffel Tower to all glass panorama windows that reflect the Los Angeles skyline by night.
“How-“ Robert begins-
Arthur kicks a chair over and has to rush into a bathroom where the water taps too fast, and then too slow, for a couple of minutes, until he’s calm.
Arthur never loses his calm
Robert doesn’t ask.
“It’s Limbo, we’re Limbo. We’re not getting out,” Arthur says. The streets and alley ways are quiet, dead, from where they stand in the middle of a crossing.
He doesn’t even know if what he says is true. But then he thinks that not much is real in Limbo, so why the hell not?
The seaside looks a bit like Ibiza. It reminds Arthur of Eames.
Not the water, not the sun and not the warm gusts of wind hitting his cheeks. But the way it feels so close to reality, like if he could ever cross the ocean (figure Eames out) maybe he’d understand reality a bit better than he currently does.
He’s been partners with Eames for a long time. But that doesn’t mean Arthur knows him.
The city, is Robert. It’s Limbo in the way Arthur twists it and shapes it and lays it off until he can’t anymore and goes restless. It’s an endless loop of twists and cavities in the ground and turns that doesn’t whisper more than the wind does.
And that’s all bullshit and Arthur’s all for kids but he hates children’s books.
He remembers Philippa’s giggling whenever he tried to read for them. His voice coming off as monotonous and he winces by every page that’s particularly sweet and no salt.
He can’t even remember how she looked like. And somewhere, that manages to strike a chord in Arthur that fucking hurts so bad he wants to cry.
Robert demands answers. Arthur is neither surprised nor anything other than fucking numb. He’s worked on getting them out of there, he’s tried to defy every single type of gravity, used the assets he has, created what is there to create.
But Limbo doesn’t have loop holes. And they were too deep in the first place to ever simply kill themselves on the doorstep.
“What is all of this?” he demands, stepping up in Arthur’s personal space, narrow eyes, wild eyes. Arthur can see the traces of age that’s set in them.
He doesn’t back off. Arthur doesn’t step down.
“If I knew we would’ve been out of here years ago,” he hisses.
He’s not too sure that’s true.
Arthur doesn’t dream. But sometimes he sees Dom, and he sees Eames, and he even sees Ariadne. And he thinks it’s all true.
When he wakes up, there is only Robert, vacantly staring out the windows with the ever changing scenery, pacing holes into the floor.
Arthur lights a cigarette, can feel the smoke and nicotine curl up in his lungs.
“It’s an oxymoron,” Arthur says. Robert turns, slowly, like he’s afraid he’ll twist his spine in two if he moves too fast.
“What is?”
Arthur shrugs, leans against the wall behind him that might as well fall out anytime, “This, Limbo.”
Robert looks indecisive, like he wants to say something, but keeps his tongue. Like he’s collected, even though he’s whipping up a storm inside his head.
“We’re not getting out,” he says, after a heartbeat. It feels like ten to Arthur.
He closes his eyes, stomps out the cigarette a bit too harshly. He feels old, too old, for all of this shit. And he doesn’t even have an answer.
Outside, by the sea, the clouds obscure the sun, and it’s not Ibiza anymore.
author; fiveto_midnight
rating; pg
character(s); arthur, robert fischer jr, (vaguely implied arthur/eames, i guess?)
word count; 994
disclaimer; nope. don't own a thing here.
notes; i have no idea, like literally no idea. i don’t even know if this makes sense? arthur-centric, anyhow. critic is greatly appreciated, since i really don’t have any idea, or any concrete idea of how to write the characters, haha.
summary; (au) arthur and robert, limbo.
Monday is chilly, rainy. It is grey and Arthur crushes the cigarette underneath his boot by the corner of the building. Annoyance creeps in his mind, he’s not really thinking. Maybe that’s just the first sign of insanity. Or maybe not being able to dream is (how are you supposed to dream when it is the only thing you can currently do. there is no such thing as a dream within a dream. not in limbo.)
It’s hard, nowadays, to draw the line and form a distinct yes or no, everything blurs together harshly.
A last curl of cigarette smoke is whisked away by the wind, harsh, marrow deep. Arthur watches it go, and he feels tired. “Too old for this shit,” he mutters.
“Too old for what?” Robert asks. The tone suggests mildness, as if that’s what Arthur needs-the quality that might have been used whilst chiding a child.
Arthur knows the texture of his voice doesn’t match the edge in his eyes. So he turns, nails tugging gently in the seam of his pocket, the small gesture distracting him from fumbling after words that doesn’t fit here.
After a minute that drags on and on Arthur might have repeated i’m too old for this shit, because that’s really how he feels. But it’s genuine, and neither has time (the truth is they have too much time, so by some fucked up logic, this is entirely too little time) for sweet talk or afternoon coffee.
The world is a knife, even Arthur can taste silver or copper on his tongue as the world splits and divides when Ariadne arrives.
Truth is, Ariadne doesn’t arrive. But there is something about Limbo and what subtle things it does to your mind, one thing at a time, that makes Arthur’s subconscious spin out of control at times.
Little things, baby steps, things that even Arthur isn’t able to keep track of.
The first few, what has to be months, he’s able to stay on his own. Sketch out dreamscapes that defies even the laws Arthur abides by. But this is Limbo, and as reality has taken a long term vacation, there aren’t any rules, no laws.
Robert finds him.
They’re locked in a building that resembles Fischer Enterprises, with innards that change from the Pentagon to the Eiffel Tower to all glass panorama windows that reflect the Los Angeles skyline by night.
“How-“ Robert begins-
Arthur kicks a chair over and has to rush into a bathroom where the water taps too fast, and then too slow, for a couple of minutes, until he’s calm.
Arthur never loses his calm
Robert doesn’t ask.
“It’s Limbo, we’re Limbo. We’re not getting out,” Arthur says. The streets and alley ways are quiet, dead, from where they stand in the middle of a crossing.
He doesn’t even know if what he says is true. But then he thinks that not much is real in Limbo, so why the hell not?
The seaside looks a bit like Ibiza. It reminds Arthur of Eames.
Not the water, not the sun and not the warm gusts of wind hitting his cheeks. But the way it feels so close to reality, like if he could ever cross the ocean (figure Eames out) maybe he’d understand reality a bit better than he currently does.
He’s been partners with Eames for a long time. But that doesn’t mean Arthur knows him.
The city, is Robert. It’s Limbo in the way Arthur twists it and shapes it and lays it off until he can’t anymore and goes restless. It’s an endless loop of twists and cavities in the ground and turns that doesn’t whisper more than the wind does.
And that’s all bullshit and Arthur’s all for kids but he hates children’s books.
He remembers Philippa’s giggling whenever he tried to read for them. His voice coming off as monotonous and he winces by every page that’s particularly sweet and no salt.
He can’t even remember how she looked like. And somewhere, that manages to strike a chord in Arthur that fucking hurts so bad he wants to cry.
Robert demands answers. Arthur is neither surprised nor anything other than fucking numb. He’s worked on getting them out of there, he’s tried to defy every single type of gravity, used the assets he has, created what is there to create.
But Limbo doesn’t have loop holes. And they were too deep in the first place to ever simply kill themselves on the doorstep.
“What is all of this?” he demands, stepping up in Arthur’s personal space, narrow eyes, wild eyes. Arthur can see the traces of age that’s set in them.
He doesn’t back off. Arthur doesn’t step down.
“If I knew we would’ve been out of here years ago,” he hisses.
He’s not too sure that’s true.
Arthur doesn’t dream. But sometimes he sees Dom, and he sees Eames, and he even sees Ariadne. And he thinks it’s all true.
When he wakes up, there is only Robert, vacantly staring out the windows with the ever changing scenery, pacing holes into the floor.
Arthur lights a cigarette, can feel the smoke and nicotine curl up in his lungs.
“It’s an oxymoron,” Arthur says. Robert turns, slowly, like he’s afraid he’ll twist his spine in two if he moves too fast.
“What is?”
Arthur shrugs, leans against the wall behind him that might as well fall out anytime, “This, Limbo.”
Robert looks indecisive, like he wants to say something, but keeps his tongue. Like he’s collected, even though he’s whipping up a storm inside his head.
“We’re not getting out,” he says, after a heartbeat. It feels like ten to Arthur.
He closes his eyes, stomps out the cigarette a bit too harshly. He feels old, too old, for all of this shit. And he doesn’t even have an answer.
Outside, by the sea, the clouds obscure the sun, and it’s not Ibiza anymore.