Vigil
Title: Vigil
Fandom: Inception
Rating: PG-13. Some mild swearing.
Characters: Arthur, Cobb (mentioned)
Summary: Done for an inception_kink prompt. Cobb is critically injured, and in surgery. They’re not sure if he’s going to make it. Arthur can’t sleep, and finds himself in front of the hospital chapel. Mild Arthur/Cobb but can be read as gen.
Note: Mostly because I needed something in the middle of the hassle with my back-up beta. Also, Arthur's former affiliation is like Mal's - Catholic. It's rather ironic, considering Catholicism is pretty strict about their loads of rules and rituals. Lastly, I moderated his speech patterns. They're noticeably casual, because he's alone, and he's under a great deal of stress.
-
Long after Cobb had been wheeled off for emergency surgery, Arthur found that his steps had taken him in front of the small hospital chapel. Miles had taken the kids away from the intensive care waiting area, and back home. Arthur had said he’d remain behind, see if there was any word, any change in Cobb’s condition. There had been none so far. The last he’d gotten out of the doctor was a quiet question - if Cobb had signed up to be an organ donor. Arthur wanted to tell her where she could stick the question. What he said was, yes.
He felt weary. The worry was still there, twisting in thick knots in the pit of his stomach. He should have gone home, should have gotten some rest.
He couldn’t.
Arthur hesitated in front of the heavy, wooden door. It was worn in places and the coat of brown paint was peeling. He’d never been on the best of terms with religion. He’d never even been anywhere close to religious, despite his upbringing. He’d never quite bought any of it. But most extractors never did.
He couldn’t quite say what made him push the door open and peer through the small gap. Maybe it was because he wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else. Maybe it was because he couldn’t stomach going into that waiting room again, sitting in one of those hard chairs, waiting for news from the doctor.
Maybe it was because he was hoping for somewhere quiet. Somewhere peaceful. He needed to be alone. He needed to think.
The chapel was deserted at this time of the night.
Arthur pushed the heavy wooden door wide open and took a step forward. And then another.
He hadn’t been in a church, not for what must have been at least twenty years. Not since he’d been a boy. The only exception had been a few years ago, when Mal had died. Still, things were the way he distantly remembered: the heavy, aged wooden pews, the way the sound of his footsteps carried in the enclosed space, the small confessional to the side of the chapel, the way the candles flickered in front of the tabernacle and on the altar, and the faint whiff of incense. He sneezed. It echoed in the chapel, but there was no response. No movement.
Arthur hadn’t expected any.
He made his way to one of the pews near the very back of the chapel and sat, hearing the faint creak as old wood protested. A missal was tucked into the back of the pew before him. He picked it up, flipped through it distractedly, glancing through pages and picking up nothing, hearing smooth, thin, leaves rustle as he rifled through them. Abruptly, he snapped the book shut and left it back where he had found it.
He shifted back in the pew and glanced briefly at the wooden box of the confessional. There wasn’t any hint of light through the white screen, indicating there was no priest around, but it didn’t matter. Arthur hadn’t been in confession for years. He’d stopped going long before he’d stopped going to church.
Even if he started, he wouldn’t have the faintest idea where to begin. He’d done too many things in the intervening years. He couldn’t talk about most of them.
He didn’t even want to.
It was a while before he shifted his gaze from his interlaced fingers to the wooden cross and the carved figure, suspended prominently behind the altar, and just before the rich and deep hues of the stained glass windows.
He didn’t quite know when he finally spoke up.
“I’ve never really believed, you know.”
It was stupid, talking aloud to the crucifix. Arthur was too weary to care, and figured no one was going to walk in on him. He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Do this and go to heaven. Do that and you get eternal damnation. That’s all there is to it. Black and white. Everything on the table. I never really bought any of it.”
One of the votive candles was nothing more than a stub. Finally, it burned out. Arthur thought he could see the thin tendril of smoke curling upwards from the blackened wick. The chapel was small. It wasn’t that far from the altar.
“We’ve never really been on good terms. I don’t…I don’t care about all that kind of stuff. I guess I’m likely to be in that black book. The bad list. I stopped caring, after a while. All the things about heaven and hell, blessed are the merciful and all that. I just did my own thing, figured…whatever I did, it’s between me and my conscience. You don’t have to fit anywhere in that equation. It’s just me.”
He found himself playing with his die, rolling it, watching it bounce across the wooden seat of the pew.
“It’s not about how you can let all that shit happen, anymore. I’ve just…” Arthur felt his throat grow tight. He took a deep breath, and went on. “I guess I’ve sort of accepted it. Shit happens. That’s fine. But I’ve never liked all of us being some sort of…pieces. Pieces in some big game of cosmological chess that you’re playing. There’s Einstein. ‘God doesn’t play dice with the universe.’ But when I think - really think about it - I’m not sure what’s worse. That we’re all…pieces, or that all of that shit, every bad thing that’s happened, Mal dying…all of that. It’s just chance. Every moment of pain - what you put Cobb through. What you put us all through. Going down that night, seeing them pull her broken, shattered body off the pavement… All of it’s just the roll of the dice. The way the dice came up.”
He glanced at the upturned face of his die. Three pips were showing. He pocketed it.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” Arthur said, finally. “I don’t know why I’m doing this. Maybe it’s habit. I don’t really know what I believe. I don’t really think about this kind of thing anymore. Not if I can help it. But I’m here anyway, talking to you. I’m not even sure if I still believe in you. I’m not sure if I ever did. But that’s not why I came here.”
He closed his eyes, feeling the words threaten to choke him. “It’s Cobb,” he managed, past the thin worm of icy dread that coiled in his chest, slowly constricting his heart. “You’ve put him through enough shit. Maybe you didn’t really see it. Maybe you don’t see things the same way we do. When he came back from limbo…it was like he’d come back from a combat zone or something. Like something had died inside of him. You couldn’t…you couldn’t reach out to him. He’d pull away. And then Mal died. Maybe part of him jumped with her, that night, on the ledge. He got worse.” He stared at his hands, focusing on his interlaced fingers. It was the only way to stop the slight tremor in his hands. “Sometimes…I thought he’d do it. That if he didn’t have anything to hold on to, anything to keep him here, he’d have followed her down. He kept pulling away. And if I pushed…if I pushed…” he pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes, willing the candle light to come back into sharp focus, willing away the blurred edges of his vision, “Sometimes, it seemed like he’d break if you pushed too hard.”
His fingers curled around the edge of the pew. He felt the rough wood against his fingers. He stared up at the tormented figure, fixed to the wood of the cross.
“I don’t know how he kept together. Sometimes…it got so bad. And there was nothing I could do. Nothing. But then…he came back, because of his children. He got it together somehow. We did that job. It should have been impossible. He managed to go home. Back to his children. So maybe I shouldn’t be asking this. I’m not one of yours. You and I…we’ve never really bothered with each other. I’m okay with things that way. Hell, I know that Cobb doesn’t have the best of records either. But after all he’s gone through…maybe you could see to caring. Giving him a break. He deserves better. So do his children. James and Philippa…they lost their mother. The least you could do is to make sure they don’t lose their father too.”
Arthur drew in a deep breath. Another candle flickered and went out.
“What I’m saying is, if you’re even there. If you’re even…real.” Arthur bowed his head, staring at his hands. He felt useless, powerless. Helpless. He always hated that feeling. He watched his hands curl into fists and forced them to relax. “Please,” he whispered, “Don’t let it end like this for him. If you…if you need to punish someone, do it to me. I’m the one who walked away. Whatever he’s done, I’ve done. I’m fine with that.”
He’d killed before. Lied, stolen, cheated. Invaded people’s minds and stolen their secrets. He’d even tortured someone, once. It wasn’t as if his hands were clean. He wasn’t proud of any of that but he knew he might have to do it again. The thought didn’t disturb him. It never really did. Maybe that, more than anything else, was one of the reasons why he didn’t do religion. Not anymore. It wasn’t really possible to see the things he had, to do the things he did, to accept that he’d likely keep on doing them - and to still stay religious.
It just didn’t work that way.
What did disturb him: Cobb wasn’t likely to make it. Cobb had been in very bad shape when they rushed him to the hospital. Cobol’s hirelings had done their job too well. Arthur exhaled, feeling the helpless anger well up inside him. It wasn’t constructive. It didn’t help. There would be time for that later, when they needed to deal with Cobol.
Not now. Not when Cobb might be dying, or already dead.
Arthur didn’t realise how long he spent in the silent chapel, head bowed, staring at his hands and occasionally at the altar, until the first rays of light began to slant through the stained glass windows, casting azure-vermilion-viridian shades across the cross and the chapel floor. His eyes felt sore and gritty, but he was too afraid to close his eyes. Too afraid he’d sleep, and too keyed up to relax.
He was afraid he’d miss the news from the doctors. The silence dragged on, nibbled at the edges of his frayed nerves.
And then, in his pocket, his cell phone buzzed.
Arthur felt for it, and pulled it out slowly. He didn’t want to look at it. Didn’t want to know. The worm of dread coiled around his heart squeezed, sharp and cold. He couldn’t quite breathe.
A single message could bring everything crashing down around him. Could destroy his world, and the lives of two children, who didn’t even really know just how critical their father’s condition was. They didn’t even know that they might not have a father any longer.
Arthur closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see it. He was too afraid of what he knew he was likely to see.
But in the end, there was really only one thing he could do.
He read the text message.
-
Fandom: Inception
Rating: PG-13. Some mild swearing.
Characters: Arthur, Cobb (mentioned)
Summary: Done for an inception_kink prompt. Cobb is critically injured, and in surgery. They’re not sure if he’s going to make it. Arthur can’t sleep, and finds himself in front of the hospital chapel. Mild Arthur/Cobb but can be read as gen.
Note: Mostly because I needed something in the middle of the hassle with my back-up beta. Also, Arthur's former affiliation is like Mal's - Catholic. It's rather ironic, considering Catholicism is pretty strict about their loads of rules and rituals. Lastly, I moderated his speech patterns. They're noticeably casual, because he's alone, and he's under a great deal of stress.
-
Long after Cobb had been wheeled off for emergency surgery, Arthur found that his steps had taken him in front of the small hospital chapel. Miles had taken the kids away from the intensive care waiting area, and back home. Arthur had said he’d remain behind, see if there was any word, any change in Cobb’s condition. There had been none so far. The last he’d gotten out of the doctor was a quiet question - if Cobb had signed up to be an organ donor. Arthur wanted to tell her where she could stick the question. What he said was, yes.
He felt weary. The worry was still there, twisting in thick knots in the pit of his stomach. He should have gone home, should have gotten some rest.
He couldn’t.
Arthur hesitated in front of the heavy, wooden door. It was worn in places and the coat of brown paint was peeling. He’d never been on the best of terms with religion. He’d never even been anywhere close to religious, despite his upbringing. He’d never quite bought any of it. But most extractors never did.
He couldn’t quite say what made him push the door open and peer through the small gap. Maybe it was because he wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else. Maybe it was because he couldn’t stomach going into that waiting room again, sitting in one of those hard chairs, waiting for news from the doctor.
Maybe it was because he was hoping for somewhere quiet. Somewhere peaceful. He needed to be alone. He needed to think.
The chapel was deserted at this time of the night.
Arthur pushed the heavy wooden door wide open and took a step forward. And then another.
He hadn’t been in a church, not for what must have been at least twenty years. Not since he’d been a boy. The only exception had been a few years ago, when Mal had died. Still, things were the way he distantly remembered: the heavy, aged wooden pews, the way the sound of his footsteps carried in the enclosed space, the small confessional to the side of the chapel, the way the candles flickered in front of the tabernacle and on the altar, and the faint whiff of incense. He sneezed. It echoed in the chapel, but there was no response. No movement.
Arthur hadn’t expected any.
He made his way to one of the pews near the very back of the chapel and sat, hearing the faint creak as old wood protested. A missal was tucked into the back of the pew before him. He picked it up, flipped through it distractedly, glancing through pages and picking up nothing, hearing smooth, thin, leaves rustle as he rifled through them. Abruptly, he snapped the book shut and left it back where he had found it.
He shifted back in the pew and glanced briefly at the wooden box of the confessional. There wasn’t any hint of light through the white screen, indicating there was no priest around, but it didn’t matter. Arthur hadn’t been in confession for years. He’d stopped going long before he’d stopped going to church.
Even if he started, he wouldn’t have the faintest idea where to begin. He’d done too many things in the intervening years. He couldn’t talk about most of them.
He didn’t even want to.
It was a while before he shifted his gaze from his interlaced fingers to the wooden cross and the carved figure, suspended prominently behind the altar, and just before the rich and deep hues of the stained glass windows.
He didn’t quite know when he finally spoke up.
“I’ve never really believed, you know.”
It was stupid, talking aloud to the crucifix. Arthur was too weary to care, and figured no one was going to walk in on him. He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Do this and go to heaven. Do that and you get eternal damnation. That’s all there is to it. Black and white. Everything on the table. I never really bought any of it.”
One of the votive candles was nothing more than a stub. Finally, it burned out. Arthur thought he could see the thin tendril of smoke curling upwards from the blackened wick. The chapel was small. It wasn’t that far from the altar.
“We’ve never really been on good terms. I don’t…I don’t care about all that kind of stuff. I guess I’m likely to be in that black book. The bad list. I stopped caring, after a while. All the things about heaven and hell, blessed are the merciful and all that. I just did my own thing, figured…whatever I did, it’s between me and my conscience. You don’t have to fit anywhere in that equation. It’s just me.”
He found himself playing with his die, rolling it, watching it bounce across the wooden seat of the pew.
“It’s not about how you can let all that shit happen, anymore. I’ve just…” Arthur felt his throat grow tight. He took a deep breath, and went on. “I guess I’ve sort of accepted it. Shit happens. That’s fine. But I’ve never liked all of us being some sort of…pieces. Pieces in some big game of cosmological chess that you’re playing. There’s Einstein. ‘God doesn’t play dice with the universe.’ But when I think - really think about it - I’m not sure what’s worse. That we’re all…pieces, or that all of that shit, every bad thing that’s happened, Mal dying…all of that. It’s just chance. Every moment of pain - what you put Cobb through. What you put us all through. Going down that night, seeing them pull her broken, shattered body off the pavement… All of it’s just the roll of the dice. The way the dice came up.”
He glanced at the upturned face of his die. Three pips were showing. He pocketed it.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” Arthur said, finally. “I don’t know why I’m doing this. Maybe it’s habit. I don’t really know what I believe. I don’t really think about this kind of thing anymore. Not if I can help it. But I’m here anyway, talking to you. I’m not even sure if I still believe in you. I’m not sure if I ever did. But that’s not why I came here.”
He closed his eyes, feeling the words threaten to choke him. “It’s Cobb,” he managed, past the thin worm of icy dread that coiled in his chest, slowly constricting his heart. “You’ve put him through enough shit. Maybe you didn’t really see it. Maybe you don’t see things the same way we do. When he came back from limbo…it was like he’d come back from a combat zone or something. Like something had died inside of him. You couldn’t…you couldn’t reach out to him. He’d pull away. And then Mal died. Maybe part of him jumped with her, that night, on the ledge. He got worse.” He stared at his hands, focusing on his interlaced fingers. It was the only way to stop the slight tremor in his hands. “Sometimes…I thought he’d do it. That if he didn’t have anything to hold on to, anything to keep him here, he’d have followed her down. He kept pulling away. And if I pushed…if I pushed…” he pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes, willing the candle light to come back into sharp focus, willing away the blurred edges of his vision, “Sometimes, it seemed like he’d break if you pushed too hard.”
His fingers curled around the edge of the pew. He felt the rough wood against his fingers. He stared up at the tormented figure, fixed to the wood of the cross.
“I don’t know how he kept together. Sometimes…it got so bad. And there was nothing I could do. Nothing. But then…he came back, because of his children. He got it together somehow. We did that job. It should have been impossible. He managed to go home. Back to his children. So maybe I shouldn’t be asking this. I’m not one of yours. You and I…we’ve never really bothered with each other. I’m okay with things that way. Hell, I know that Cobb doesn’t have the best of records either. But after all he’s gone through…maybe you could see to caring. Giving him a break. He deserves better. So do his children. James and Philippa…they lost their mother. The least you could do is to make sure they don’t lose their father too.”
Arthur drew in a deep breath. Another candle flickered and went out.
“What I’m saying is, if you’re even there. If you’re even…real.” Arthur bowed his head, staring at his hands. He felt useless, powerless. Helpless. He always hated that feeling. He watched his hands curl into fists and forced them to relax. “Please,” he whispered, “Don’t let it end like this for him. If you…if you need to punish someone, do it to me. I’m the one who walked away. Whatever he’s done, I’ve done. I’m fine with that.”
He’d killed before. Lied, stolen, cheated. Invaded people’s minds and stolen their secrets. He’d even tortured someone, once. It wasn’t as if his hands were clean. He wasn’t proud of any of that but he knew he might have to do it again. The thought didn’t disturb him. It never really did. Maybe that, more than anything else, was one of the reasons why he didn’t do religion. Not anymore. It wasn’t really possible to see the things he had, to do the things he did, to accept that he’d likely keep on doing them - and to still stay religious.
It just didn’t work that way.
What did disturb him: Cobb wasn’t likely to make it. Cobb had been in very bad shape when they rushed him to the hospital. Cobol’s hirelings had done their job too well. Arthur exhaled, feeling the helpless anger well up inside him. It wasn’t constructive. It didn’t help. There would be time for that later, when they needed to deal with Cobol.
Not now. Not when Cobb might be dying, or already dead.
Arthur didn’t realise how long he spent in the silent chapel, head bowed, staring at his hands and occasionally at the altar, until the first rays of light began to slant through the stained glass windows, casting azure-vermilion-viridian shades across the cross and the chapel floor. His eyes felt sore and gritty, but he was too afraid to close his eyes. Too afraid he’d sleep, and too keyed up to relax.
He was afraid he’d miss the news from the doctors. The silence dragged on, nibbled at the edges of his frayed nerves.
And then, in his pocket, his cell phone buzzed.
Arthur felt for it, and pulled it out slowly. He didn’t want to look at it. Didn’t want to know. The worm of dread coiled around his heart squeezed, sharp and cold. He couldn’t quite breathe.
A single message could bring everything crashing down around him. Could destroy his world, and the lives of two children, who didn’t even really know just how critical their father’s condition was. They didn’t even know that they might not have a father any longer.
Arthur closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see it. He was too afraid of what he knew he was likely to see.
But in the end, there was really only one thing he could do.
He read the text message.
-