(fic) Autonomic
Autonomic | radishface
Inception → Cobb/Arthur
The time Cobb almost lost Arthur for good and Arthur almost let him do it. 3222 words. Explicit.
A/N, written for inception_kink for a number of prompts including this, and this.
These things are becoming familiar: the sinking of his gut, of his senses, when the IV goes in and his mind goes under, the way the first thing he looks for is Cobb when his eyes open again. These days, he’s filled with apprehension the day of, whatever the assignment, however much they’ve prepared in advance.
Mal used to be a shade in the truest sense, an apparition here and there and even up close, Arthur could see right through her. She was as transparent as glass and as gossamer as air, a silky, sullen thought-thing here and there around every corner. One time she flung herself at Arthur, mouth open in a scream and face contorted in rage, but there was no sound, no rush of wind to accompany the movement of her body. She'd passed through him like a ghost. Cobb had looked on, lips pursed, eyes unreadable.
Then Mal jumped, and when she jumped, she became real in the jobs.
The first time Mal killed Arthur, it was with a kitchen knife the size of her arm. She plunged the blade into Arthur’s chest over and over again and sneered at him, this is what you wanted all along, wasn’t it, well now you can have it, thrusting the blade over and over into him until the tip of it pierced Arthur’s heart and he woke with a jolt.
Arthur might die in these dreams, always against the plan, but they always make it out where it counts. Cobb always wakes moments later (but down there minutes, hours can have passed), ripping the IV off and face stony as he trips out of the room without so much as a glance at Arthur and Arthur is lurching after him, PASIV case in his grip and the mark asleep behind them in fitful twitches.
Rumble, whirr, hiss. The now-familiar sound of Cobb’s world unfolding around Arthur, the sound of Cobb laying out the map in practice, streamlined streets and nameless buildings taking form, crawling up on their own and coagulating into familiar shapes. Arthur is watching in the shadows, an unannounced visitor, secret in the night next to Cobb’s and Cobb’s recliner, Somnacil running strong in the name of risk management.
And it’s not Arthur’s fault if he’s too busy watching the buildings fall upwards and coalesce from folds into planes, the walks and joys of humans springing up as they emerge from corners and alleyways and the shadows and some of them rub shoulders with Arthur as they pass him, barely sparing him a glance. Bright windows and processions, people wandering purposefully in all forms, all shapes, sizes, ages, and combinations, talking with each other and with intent, their eyes bright and alive and real, and Arthur can’t take his eyes off this world, off Cobb’s worlds. Where his dreams are clean around the edges, Cobb’s are rough, and where Arthur’s projections are clinical, robotic, Cobb’s are as real as real.
And if Arthur can’t take his eyes off Cobb’s city long enough to notice the gradual crumble of the building behind him, the collapse from the tallest brick down, then it’s his own fault and his fault alone.
Cobb doesn’t know he’s here, shouldn’t know he’s here. But the noise of clashing cement and metal stirred by the wind of Cobb’s discontent swirling around them all suggests that Arthur is not so invisible anymore. Projections fly asunder in the vortex, skin and bones and blood all in spiral-moving pieces around Cobb, (Arthur’s projections would be bloodless, would land in primordial puddles upon impact), and Arthur is getting edged out by the fierce winds, struggling to keep still in the shadows, fingers breaking and bleeding as they scrabble against the brick and mortar for any kind of hold-
Mal walks in front of him, unruffled by the storm, as if still a ghost and the wind passing through her. She’s looking at him and Arthur is looking back and she’s saying something but Arthur can’t hear her over the wind. She might be a ghost and the wind might go right through her but she reaches out with both hands, real as real, and winds her fingers around Arthur’s neck. Mal beats his head against the wall again and again and again until his blood sings a swan song out of his skull.
“That can’t happen again.”
Cobb is sitting with his back to Arthur, shoulders hunched over. He doesn’t move. Arthur sits up a little straighter.
“I said-”
“I heard what you said.” Cobb’s voice is parched, laid out in the sun for too long, in the light of realization.
Cobb stands up, rubbing his face with his hands, “I know. No more.” And no, that wasn’t what Arthur was going to say, and Arthur stands up too, words on the tip of his tongue and dying in his throat when Cobb turns around and looks at Arthur and it’s terrible, broken. Arthur takes a step back, and then two, feeling himself numb and the only sound is his heart beating furiously but it’s not the direction he means to go, not at all.
Cobb walks away, but Arthur lets him go.
Arthur books two jobs right away. The first one is an easy freelance assignment; a rich man sending Arthur in to see if his much-younger wife is cheating on him. Arthur could tell him as much without the PASIV, and is reminded of a joke that Eames once told about the young adulteress of a rabbi who had five boyfriends and lived to see them all die.
Arthur might have chuckled. A little bit. Those were the days when Cobb still laughed, too, and Mal right along with him.
The mark is buxom and Botoxed, and they are in and out in a matter of fifteen minutes (DT dream time). Arthur tells the client the name of the Other Man and pockets enough money to pay his annual rent twice over and does so, much to the delight of his landlord.
The second job is for a dream therapy clinic located on Mulholland Drive called Endymion. Arthur applies for the position of Product Engineer because he wants to.
On the day of the interview they ask him about his hopes and dreams, his work ethic, and his past experiences. Never mind if those past experiences aren’t entirely “kosher,” they just want to know what he’s done and how he can apply his skill sets to helping clients at Endymion discover meaning in their lives. “It’s a noble thing you’ll be doing,” they tell him, and Arthur is momentarily distracted by the momentary puzzle. He answers all the interview questions with the fervor of somebody discovering a new world for the first time, and to be fair, it is a new world, almost. (Arthur had the option to volunteer at a dream clinic during his EMT training in college, but opted to pursue an elective option in the molecular biology lab instead.)
The managing director offers him the job on the spot, lauding him for his passion and his technical ability. She hands him a stack of books and tells him to read and Arthur does, meticulously marking up The Canterbury Tales and The Odyssey and Lord of the Rings like he’s in English class again so he can create worlds that parallel and surpass theirs.
But in the end, Arthur can only mimic. He can create the journeys word-for-word but everything is too orderly, too unchaotic. Focus groups complain that their dreams are uninspired. They ask him, where is the catharsis that accompanies the journey’s end? The M.D. tells him, maybe he just needs a little more training. But weeks after weeks, Arthur’s Pardoner remains mute of sin and his Harpies sing flat cantatas and his Mordor is filled with mountains all of the same complexion and navigability.
He's transferred to accounts receivable in the finance team.
The clinic’s well-heeled clientele- Hollywood starlets, drug dealers, investment bankers, basketball wives- parade through the marbled lobby, coming in with tongues clicking and leaving with beatific smiles on their faces, Manolos and Ferragamos clicking their way to Enlightenment. Arthur’s heart beats slow and steady in his chest as he sulks in the legitimacy in watching them wake up on the clock and smile at him and tip him and wrap up their sessions with quantitative questionnaires and the on-site therapists.
Arthur rarely hates anything, but he might hate this.
He is out one night getting a few drinks with a few of his most tolerable coworkers. They are named Natalie and Constance and Becker and Tony. Natalie graduated from Stanford and is working in the clinic as well. Constance is a 20-year old junior at USC and Becker’s cousin. Becker worked at the UCLA Medical Center before going into the private practice, and Tony works in the marketing department but wants to go back to Yale for English literature.
They are heading to sp@ce, a new club with a lot of ultraviolet light and a lot of minimalist techno beats and have just finished smoking and taking shots at Cargo before. His head is swimming pleasantly, enough to make everything very tolerable, lights all blurring to one motion and one light at this moment and all the sounds around him like the ocean.
The feeling is familiar because this is the way every dream starts with Cobb. Cobb’s brain logs in fast, tuned to the Somnacil before Arthur’s neurotransmitters can even start releasing. Sometimes before he wakes up in the dream, he feels the wind on his face and an ocean rumbling in his ears, coolness on his face and Cobb, wading through the water and reaching out a hand to pick him out of the surf-
And so that’s why Arthur bumps into someone that looks like Cobb he thinks he is suddenly caught in a dream. He looks up and up again to stammer his apologies but it really is Cobb, hands on his arms to steady him and saying “Arthur. Arthur.”
He blinks sluggishly, still caught in the haze of good humor and hubris, before his consciousness catches up to his body. “Cobb,” he says, and his voice is clipped, short. Like he’s surprised. “You,” he starts, and he meant to say it as a greeting, how’re you, Cobb? It’s been a while, hasn’t it?
But no, it comes out as an accusation. “You,” Arthur chokes out, pushing Cobb away and feeling his center of balance shift dramatically. “What, demons dead already? Can’t believe they left you off so easily. Should buy you a drink.”
“Hey,” Cobb says slowly, “are you drunk?”
Real fuckin’, Arthur thinks, almost hahs in Cobb’s face but then remembers that this isn’t a dream, that he’s actually here and Cobb’s actually here. “Sorry,” and he tries to stand up by himself, and does. Cobb lets go of his arms.
“Arthur,”
“Have you been following me?” He suddenly realizes in disbelief. This is, in no way, shape, or form, Cobb’s choice of weekend downtown activity. Technically it wasn’t Arthur’s either, but that Cobb is actually here Arthur realizes something crucially important. “--hypocrite.” And that last accusation doesn't make any sense but Arthur, here's Arthur working at some trendy Hollywood dream clinic and trying to keep things professional and distant between them like they should be and ignoring all of Cobb's phone calls and the latter maybe isn't really that professional but he didn't want to go down that road because he knew how it would end.
Like this, maybe.
“Arthur,”
“I don’t have to take this from you.” His hands are clenched tight into fists even as he makes himself back away, keep still. “You left us, in case you forgot, so, so just go to hell-”
“Everything okay, man?” Tony’s turned back, Natalie and Constance looking back too. Tony is standing up at his tallest, swimmer’s build impressive and Arthur would want to if he weren’t so, that is, being terribly honest about himself, so he says “yes, everything’s all right” the same time Cobb is still looking at him, eyes never off him and saying, sotto voce, “no, Arthur, it’s not.”
“We should catch up sometime,” Arthur is says, feeling caustic and throat scratchy and already walking away from Cobb.
“We need to talk, Arthur,”
“Coffee or something, you know?” He says over his shoulder.
“Now.” And Cobb grabs his wrist and pulls, and Arthur-
It’s not like Arthur really ever wanted to go out of orbit.
Cobb shoves him in the car like a mark and drives to his apartment. He hauls him out, Arthur a puddle of chuckles and annoyed sighs and the next thing he knows his shoes are off and he’s on the couch. His own couch in the living room and Cobb is putting a straw in his mouth and there’s a cup of ice cold water in his hand and he’s telling Arthur to drink, a gentleness in his eyes that hasn’t been there since Mal used to put it there.
Arthur sits up and drinks, perfectly thankful that Cobb didn’t take his socks off, he’d been in those shoes all night, and drinks and drinks until the water is gone from the cup. “I’m not five years old,” Arthur mutters, and Cobb rocks back on his heels and mouths, I know. That’s when Arthur swings his legs around the couch and leans forward so that they’re facing each other, really, for the first time in a while.
Bringing his hand up to Cobb’s face is the heaviest feeling, like he’s swimming through syrup to get to him. But he does it and then he’s leaning in more and then he’s kissing him, the lightest brush of lips on lips. His heart skips a beat, then two, then five, and then Cobb’s pushed forward and has his hands in Arthur’s hair and reaching around to cradle Arthur’s skull as he slicks his tongue across Arthur’s lips. He gasps and Cobb tongues in farther and then Arthur is pushing back.
God, he breathes, and Cobb is saying it too, Cobb is saying what are you doing to me what are you doing to me, Arthur, over and over again like a mantra and his hands are moving down Arthur’s shirt, popping buttons and Arthur’s going to kill him for that later if he doesn’t die of this first. He’s hard, harder than he’s been in years because these last few years he’s been working and that’s all he’s been doing, never letting himself think about what this would be like because what’s the point, Cobb’s a married man and Arthur is a rules sort of guy so he just works and counts himself among the luckiest because he gets to watch Cobb build and that’s what Cobb is meant to do in this world.
And no, Arthur thinks greedily, gleefully, Mal isn’t here. She isn’t here and yes, she can kill Arthur down there and Cobb’s guilt can let her do it down there but here, here, Cobb is all Arthur’s. Cobb in all his genius and imperfections and his far-away looks all on Arthur now, of course Arthur is greedy. And next time they go under Mal will be there and Mal will know and she may kill him slower, faster, hacking away at him and his insides until he’s all gone but he has this with Cobb, here.
Cobb is stroking him through his briefs and Arthur is spreading his legs as far as he’s able. He finds enough coordination left to undo Cobb’s belt buckle and button and zipper and reach a hand in to find a hardness that matches his own. Cobb has tugged Arthur out and one hand is slicking and stroking him and the other hand is pushing the hair out of Arthur’s face as he mouths him everywhere, between his eyebrows, lips fluttering over his eyelids and the bridge of his nose. Then he drops to his knees and pulls Arthur’s pants all the way down and puts Arthur’s cock in his mouth. It’s the wettest hottest nastiest and Arthur can’t keep track of order of things, can’t remember for later, everything in his mind is short-circuiting as Cobb moves his tongue up and down and laving Arthur’s cock with spit until it’s bright and red and shiny and sucking and it’s a perfect black hole and oh. oh.
Cobb keeps talking, keeps whispering, I need you, I need you with me, can’t do this without you, and Arthur can only push up helplessly and say yes, yes, yes.
His Blackberry wakes him up the next morning, buzzing on the floor somewhere in his pants pocket. For a second he’s confused, disoriented by the fact that his pants seem to be ringing from the floor, then he remembers getting drunk, drunker than drunk, with Constance and Tony and Becker and Natalie and then seeing Cobb and then the unprofessional rest of it. Arthur can’t even begin to think about the things they did last night without feeling his face run hot like a boiler room.
He sits up halfway and stops. Cobb is leaning forward in the armchair, fully dressed, suit rumpled. He’s got his elbows on his knees and his fingers crossed, hiding his mouth, watching Arthur over the bridge of his knuckles with that blue-hot stare, as if trying to remember him and make him remember this, all at once.
Arthur wants to be frozen there, vulnerable and scared and this moment now so full of uncertainty and the next filled with deliverance and then regret. He wants that vicious cycle, but old habits die hard.
Old habits die hard and Arthur gets up and puts on a t-shirt and a pair of boxers so he isn’t completely naked. He heads to the kitchen and downs one shot of espresso. He puts the eggs in the boiler and sets the timer for seven minutes. He’s setting the toast in the toaster before Cobb’s shuffling down the hall. Arthur hands him a cup of coffee.
Cobb takes it and says, “I meant what I said last night.”
Arthur’s not looking at him, not looking at him. He’s watching the toaster.
Finally he says, “I don’t want to quit. But that can’t ever happen again.”
Cobb releases a sharp huff laughter, not ringing right around the edges. “What can’t?”
“Last night.” Arthur sips at his coffee. It’s bitter. His voice is barely there now, sunk so low. “Dom. It’s one or the other.”
Cobb looks like he hasn’t slept. Couldn’t sleep.
“Should just,” Arthur’s voice almost hitches. “Should just do what we’re good at.”
An eternity in the form of a minute and Arthur’s hands are clenched so white around his mug he might shatter it. The thing with dreams is-when you wake up, you can forget what you want. And sometimes it’s a little harder, and sometimes it’s a little easier, but in the end you always do. But here, Cobb is setting down his coffee cup and standing up, clearing his throat.
“Be at the warehouse in two hours. I’ll brief you on our next case.” And just like that, he looks at Arthur, eyes easy and confident and making Arthur believe that yeah, they can do this. They’re going to get through this. He feels a lurch in his stomach, unwarranted.
“Noted. See you there.”
The door closes behind Cobb and Arthur thinks: so that’s how it goes.
-|-
{ii} HOW TO USE A LIFEJACKET
Inception → Cobb/Arthur
The time Cobb almost lost Arthur for good and Arthur almost let him do it. 3222 words. Explicit.
A/N, written for inception_kink for a number of prompts including this, and this.
These things are becoming familiar: the sinking of his gut, of his senses, when the IV goes in and his mind goes under, the way the first thing he looks for is Cobb when his eyes open again. These days, he’s filled with apprehension the day of, whatever the assignment, however much they’ve prepared in advance.
Mal used to be a shade in the truest sense, an apparition here and there and even up close, Arthur could see right through her. She was as transparent as glass and as gossamer as air, a silky, sullen thought-thing here and there around every corner. One time she flung herself at Arthur, mouth open in a scream and face contorted in rage, but there was no sound, no rush of wind to accompany the movement of her body. She'd passed through him like a ghost. Cobb had looked on, lips pursed, eyes unreadable.
Then Mal jumped, and when she jumped, she became real in the jobs.
The first time Mal killed Arthur, it was with a kitchen knife the size of her arm. She plunged the blade into Arthur’s chest over and over again and sneered at him, this is what you wanted all along, wasn’t it, well now you can have it, thrusting the blade over and over into him until the tip of it pierced Arthur’s heart and he woke with a jolt.
Arthur might die in these dreams, always against the plan, but they always make it out where it counts. Cobb always wakes moments later (but down there minutes, hours can have passed), ripping the IV off and face stony as he trips out of the room without so much as a glance at Arthur and Arthur is lurching after him, PASIV case in his grip and the mark asleep behind them in fitful twitches.
Rumble, whirr, hiss. The now-familiar sound of Cobb’s world unfolding around Arthur, the sound of Cobb laying out the map in practice, streamlined streets and nameless buildings taking form, crawling up on their own and coagulating into familiar shapes. Arthur is watching in the shadows, an unannounced visitor, secret in the night next to Cobb’s and Cobb’s recliner, Somnacil running strong in the name of risk management.
And it’s not Arthur’s fault if he’s too busy watching the buildings fall upwards and coalesce from folds into planes, the walks and joys of humans springing up as they emerge from corners and alleyways and the shadows and some of them rub shoulders with Arthur as they pass him, barely sparing him a glance. Bright windows and processions, people wandering purposefully in all forms, all shapes, sizes, ages, and combinations, talking with each other and with intent, their eyes bright and alive and real, and Arthur can’t take his eyes off this world, off Cobb’s worlds. Where his dreams are clean around the edges, Cobb’s are rough, and where Arthur’s projections are clinical, robotic, Cobb’s are as real as real.
And if Arthur can’t take his eyes off Cobb’s city long enough to notice the gradual crumble of the building behind him, the collapse from the tallest brick down, then it’s his own fault and his fault alone.
Cobb doesn’t know he’s here, shouldn’t know he’s here. But the noise of clashing cement and metal stirred by the wind of Cobb’s discontent swirling around them all suggests that Arthur is not so invisible anymore. Projections fly asunder in the vortex, skin and bones and blood all in spiral-moving pieces around Cobb, (Arthur’s projections would be bloodless, would land in primordial puddles upon impact), and Arthur is getting edged out by the fierce winds, struggling to keep still in the shadows, fingers breaking and bleeding as they scrabble against the brick and mortar for any kind of hold-
Mal walks in front of him, unruffled by the storm, as if still a ghost and the wind passing through her. She’s looking at him and Arthur is looking back and she’s saying something but Arthur can’t hear her over the wind. She might be a ghost and the wind might go right through her but she reaches out with both hands, real as real, and winds her fingers around Arthur’s neck. Mal beats his head against the wall again and again and again until his blood sings a swan song out of his skull.
“That can’t happen again.”
Cobb is sitting with his back to Arthur, shoulders hunched over. He doesn’t move. Arthur sits up a little straighter.
“I said-”
“I heard what you said.” Cobb’s voice is parched, laid out in the sun for too long, in the light of realization.
Cobb stands up, rubbing his face with his hands, “I know. No more.” And no, that wasn’t what Arthur was going to say, and Arthur stands up too, words on the tip of his tongue and dying in his throat when Cobb turns around and looks at Arthur and it’s terrible, broken. Arthur takes a step back, and then two, feeling himself numb and the only sound is his heart beating furiously but it’s not the direction he means to go, not at all.
Cobb walks away, but Arthur lets him go.
Arthur books two jobs right away. The first one is an easy freelance assignment; a rich man sending Arthur in to see if his much-younger wife is cheating on him. Arthur could tell him as much without the PASIV, and is reminded of a joke that Eames once told about the young adulteress of a rabbi who had five boyfriends and lived to see them all die.
Arthur might have chuckled. A little bit. Those were the days when Cobb still laughed, too, and Mal right along with him.
The mark is buxom and Botoxed, and they are in and out in a matter of fifteen minutes (DT dream time). Arthur tells the client the name of the Other Man and pockets enough money to pay his annual rent twice over and does so, much to the delight of his landlord.
The second job is for a dream therapy clinic located on Mulholland Drive called Endymion. Arthur applies for the position of Product Engineer because he wants to.
On the day of the interview they ask him about his hopes and dreams, his work ethic, and his past experiences. Never mind if those past experiences aren’t entirely “kosher,” they just want to know what he’s done and how he can apply his skill sets to helping clients at Endymion discover meaning in their lives. “It’s a noble thing you’ll be doing,” they tell him, and Arthur is momentarily distracted by the momentary puzzle. He answers all the interview questions with the fervor of somebody discovering a new world for the first time, and to be fair, it is a new world, almost. (Arthur had the option to volunteer at a dream clinic during his EMT training in college, but opted to pursue an elective option in the molecular biology lab instead.)
The managing director offers him the job on the spot, lauding him for his passion and his technical ability. She hands him a stack of books and tells him to read and Arthur does, meticulously marking up The Canterbury Tales and The Odyssey and Lord of the Rings like he’s in English class again so he can create worlds that parallel and surpass theirs.
But in the end, Arthur can only mimic. He can create the journeys word-for-word but everything is too orderly, too unchaotic. Focus groups complain that their dreams are uninspired. They ask him, where is the catharsis that accompanies the journey’s end? The M.D. tells him, maybe he just needs a little more training. But weeks after weeks, Arthur’s Pardoner remains mute of sin and his Harpies sing flat cantatas and his Mordor is filled with mountains all of the same complexion and navigability.
He's transferred to accounts receivable in the finance team.
The clinic’s well-heeled clientele- Hollywood starlets, drug dealers, investment bankers, basketball wives- parade through the marbled lobby, coming in with tongues clicking and leaving with beatific smiles on their faces, Manolos and Ferragamos clicking their way to Enlightenment. Arthur’s heart beats slow and steady in his chest as he sulks in the legitimacy in watching them wake up on the clock and smile at him and tip him and wrap up their sessions with quantitative questionnaires and the on-site therapists.
Arthur rarely hates anything, but he might hate this.
He is out one night getting a few drinks with a few of his most tolerable coworkers. They are named Natalie and Constance and Becker and Tony. Natalie graduated from Stanford and is working in the clinic as well. Constance is a 20-year old junior at USC and Becker’s cousin. Becker worked at the UCLA Medical Center before going into the private practice, and Tony works in the marketing department but wants to go back to Yale for English literature.
They are heading to sp@ce, a new club with a lot of ultraviolet light and a lot of minimalist techno beats and have just finished smoking and taking shots at Cargo before. His head is swimming pleasantly, enough to make everything very tolerable, lights all blurring to one motion and one light at this moment and all the sounds around him like the ocean.
The feeling is familiar because this is the way every dream starts with Cobb. Cobb’s brain logs in fast, tuned to the Somnacil before Arthur’s neurotransmitters can even start releasing. Sometimes before he wakes up in the dream, he feels the wind on his face and an ocean rumbling in his ears, coolness on his face and Cobb, wading through the water and reaching out a hand to pick him out of the surf-
And so that’s why Arthur bumps into someone that looks like Cobb he thinks he is suddenly caught in a dream. He looks up and up again to stammer his apologies but it really is Cobb, hands on his arms to steady him and saying “Arthur. Arthur.”
He blinks sluggishly, still caught in the haze of good humor and hubris, before his consciousness catches up to his body. “Cobb,” he says, and his voice is clipped, short. Like he’s surprised. “You,” he starts, and he meant to say it as a greeting, how’re you, Cobb? It’s been a while, hasn’t it?
But no, it comes out as an accusation. “You,” Arthur chokes out, pushing Cobb away and feeling his center of balance shift dramatically. “What, demons dead already? Can’t believe they left you off so easily. Should buy you a drink.”
“Hey,” Cobb says slowly, “are you drunk?”
Real fuckin’, Arthur thinks, almost hahs in Cobb’s face but then remembers that this isn’t a dream, that he’s actually here and Cobb’s actually here. “Sorry,” and he tries to stand up by himself, and does. Cobb lets go of his arms.
“Arthur,”
“Have you been following me?” He suddenly realizes in disbelief. This is, in no way, shape, or form, Cobb’s choice of weekend downtown activity. Technically it wasn’t Arthur’s either, but that Cobb is actually here Arthur realizes something crucially important. “--hypocrite.” And that last accusation doesn't make any sense but Arthur, here's Arthur working at some trendy Hollywood dream clinic and trying to keep things professional and distant between them like they should be and ignoring all of Cobb's phone calls and the latter maybe isn't really that professional but he didn't want to go down that road because he knew how it would end.
Like this, maybe.
“Arthur,”
“I don’t have to take this from you.” His hands are clenched tight into fists even as he makes himself back away, keep still. “You left us, in case you forgot, so, so just go to hell-”
“Everything okay, man?” Tony’s turned back, Natalie and Constance looking back too. Tony is standing up at his tallest, swimmer’s build impressive and Arthur would want to if he weren’t so, that is, being terribly honest about himself, so he says “yes, everything’s all right” the same time Cobb is still looking at him, eyes never off him and saying, sotto voce, “no, Arthur, it’s not.”
“We should catch up sometime,” Arthur is says, feeling caustic and throat scratchy and already walking away from Cobb.
“We need to talk, Arthur,”
“Coffee or something, you know?” He says over his shoulder.
“Now.” And Cobb grabs his wrist and pulls, and Arthur-
It’s not like Arthur really ever wanted to go out of orbit.
Cobb shoves him in the car like a mark and drives to his apartment. He hauls him out, Arthur a puddle of chuckles and annoyed sighs and the next thing he knows his shoes are off and he’s on the couch. His own couch in the living room and Cobb is putting a straw in his mouth and there’s a cup of ice cold water in his hand and he’s telling Arthur to drink, a gentleness in his eyes that hasn’t been there since Mal used to put it there.
Arthur sits up and drinks, perfectly thankful that Cobb didn’t take his socks off, he’d been in those shoes all night, and drinks and drinks until the water is gone from the cup. “I’m not five years old,” Arthur mutters, and Cobb rocks back on his heels and mouths, I know. That’s when Arthur swings his legs around the couch and leans forward so that they’re facing each other, really, for the first time in a while.
Bringing his hand up to Cobb’s face is the heaviest feeling, like he’s swimming through syrup to get to him. But he does it and then he’s leaning in more and then he’s kissing him, the lightest brush of lips on lips. His heart skips a beat, then two, then five, and then Cobb’s pushed forward and has his hands in Arthur’s hair and reaching around to cradle Arthur’s skull as he slicks his tongue across Arthur’s lips. He gasps and Cobb tongues in farther and then Arthur is pushing back.
God, he breathes, and Cobb is saying it too, Cobb is saying what are you doing to me what are you doing to me, Arthur, over and over again like a mantra and his hands are moving down Arthur’s shirt, popping buttons and Arthur’s going to kill him for that later if he doesn’t die of this first. He’s hard, harder than he’s been in years because these last few years he’s been working and that’s all he’s been doing, never letting himself think about what this would be like because what’s the point, Cobb’s a married man and Arthur is a rules sort of guy so he just works and counts himself among the luckiest because he gets to watch Cobb build and that’s what Cobb is meant to do in this world.
And no, Arthur thinks greedily, gleefully, Mal isn’t here. She isn’t here and yes, she can kill Arthur down there and Cobb’s guilt can let her do it down there but here, here, Cobb is all Arthur’s. Cobb in all his genius and imperfections and his far-away looks all on Arthur now, of course Arthur is greedy. And next time they go under Mal will be there and Mal will know and she may kill him slower, faster, hacking away at him and his insides until he’s all gone but he has this with Cobb, here.
Cobb is stroking him through his briefs and Arthur is spreading his legs as far as he’s able. He finds enough coordination left to undo Cobb’s belt buckle and button and zipper and reach a hand in to find a hardness that matches his own. Cobb has tugged Arthur out and one hand is slicking and stroking him and the other hand is pushing the hair out of Arthur’s face as he mouths him everywhere, between his eyebrows, lips fluttering over his eyelids and the bridge of his nose. Then he drops to his knees and pulls Arthur’s pants all the way down and puts Arthur’s cock in his mouth. It’s the wettest hottest nastiest and Arthur can’t keep track of order of things, can’t remember for later, everything in his mind is short-circuiting as Cobb moves his tongue up and down and laving Arthur’s cock with spit until it’s bright and red and shiny and sucking and it’s a perfect black hole and oh. oh.
Cobb keeps talking, keeps whispering, I need you, I need you with me, can’t do this without you, and Arthur can only push up helplessly and say yes, yes, yes.
His Blackberry wakes him up the next morning, buzzing on the floor somewhere in his pants pocket. For a second he’s confused, disoriented by the fact that his pants seem to be ringing from the floor, then he remembers getting drunk, drunker than drunk, with Constance and Tony and Becker and Natalie and then seeing Cobb and then the unprofessional rest of it. Arthur can’t even begin to think about the things they did last night without feeling his face run hot like a boiler room.
He sits up halfway and stops. Cobb is leaning forward in the armchair, fully dressed, suit rumpled. He’s got his elbows on his knees and his fingers crossed, hiding his mouth, watching Arthur over the bridge of his knuckles with that blue-hot stare, as if trying to remember him and make him remember this, all at once.
Arthur wants to be frozen there, vulnerable and scared and this moment now so full of uncertainty and the next filled with deliverance and then regret. He wants that vicious cycle, but old habits die hard.
Old habits die hard and Arthur gets up and puts on a t-shirt and a pair of boxers so he isn’t completely naked. He heads to the kitchen and downs one shot of espresso. He puts the eggs in the boiler and sets the timer for seven minutes. He’s setting the toast in the toaster before Cobb’s shuffling down the hall. Arthur hands him a cup of coffee.
Cobb takes it and says, “I meant what I said last night.”
Arthur’s not looking at him, not looking at him. He’s watching the toaster.
Finally he says, “I don’t want to quit. But that can’t ever happen again.”
Cobb releases a sharp huff laughter, not ringing right around the edges. “What can’t?”
“Last night.” Arthur sips at his coffee. It’s bitter. His voice is barely there now, sunk so low. “Dom. It’s one or the other.”
Cobb looks like he hasn’t slept. Couldn’t sleep.
“Should just,” Arthur’s voice almost hitches. “Should just do what we’re good at.”
An eternity in the form of a minute and Arthur’s hands are clenched so white around his mug he might shatter it. The thing with dreams is-when you wake up, you can forget what you want. And sometimes it’s a little harder, and sometimes it’s a little easier, but in the end you always do. But here, Cobb is setting down his coffee cup and standing up, clearing his throat.
“Be at the warehouse in two hours. I’ll brief you on our next case.” And just like that, he looks at Arthur, eyes easy and confident and making Arthur believe that yeah, they can do this. They’re going to get through this. He feels a lurch in his stomach, unwarranted.
“Noted. See you there.”
The door closes behind Cobb and Arthur thinks: so that’s how it goes.
-|-
{ii} HOW TO USE A LIFEJACKET