(no subject)
Fandom; Inception
Title; To Live a Lie
Characters; Robert Fischer, Peter Browning
Pairings; None
Rating; PG-13
Word count; 698
Chapter; Completed, one-shot.
NOTES; Written for the inception kink meme. Prompt:
Robert Fischer is only looking so terribly exhausted and weak because he is distraught about his dead father, right?
Everyone who has had inception affected upon them has bad reactions. At least his father still loves him.
MAYBE.
Robert is only vaguely aware of Browning entering the room, the man a mere ghost lapping at the periphery of his senses. He clutches the bottle of wine in his hands, pouring more of it down his throat as if it could wash away the distaste of his guest burning in the back of his throat.
He doesn't know when it got like this between him and Browning. He used to trust him. Hell, he was closer to family to Robert than his father ever was. But that was then. That was before he knew.
"What the hell are you doing, Robert?" Browning rages at him, reaching out to take the bottle from his hands. Robert twirls away from him, the motion much more elegant in his mind than it is in reality - he stumbles into the cabinet next to him, and as Browning watches he swears the boy will shatter upon contact. As it is, Robert feels the cool glass, solid beneath his fingers, begin to slip - but he holds on, tightly, because this wine is from someone - someone important - or, or, it is of some vintage and it is important, important, but he cannot remember why.
"What does it look like?" Robert says, attempting to impart a tone of nonchalance, but with his brain seeped in so much alcohol he's lucky the words come out at all. "I'm drinking."
"I can see that," Browning snaps, pinching the bridge of his nose, "I'm not talking about that." He pauses, then adds as an afterthought, "I'm not talking about that right now. We will." We have to is heavily implied here, and Robert knows it's only time before someone sits him down and pretends to be concerned about the fact he hasn't consumed anything besides alcohol or gotten a single moment of sleep since the plane ride home.
"But there's much more important concerns than my own health, I know, Uncle Peter, I know..." Robert slurs, the last part of his sentence and incomprehensible mumble of words. He lets his head lull slightly, staring at the floor, because he doesn't need to see Browning's face to know the frown marring it.
"Your health is important to me, boy, but you're right in a way. It's going to be the least of our worries - your worries - if you dissolve your father's empire." Before he even finishes speaking, Robert is laughing. "Quit that!" Browning fumes at him, agitation rising. "You're destroying years - decades - of effort. Do you even comprehend the amount of work you're throwing away here? Everything your father strived for - gone."
The laughing stops. Robert is instantly quiet again, and he stares at Browning with such clarity, such certainty, that for a moment Browning wonders if he's managed to sober himself up in an instant. "You're wrong," he says in a low voice. "You're wrong."
"I know you hated your father - hell, I would too, if my father viewed me as such a colossal failure as Maurice thought -" Browning stops then, instantly knowing he's gone too far. Robert just stares back at him, his eyes wide and heartbroken.
"Nonononono," he mumbles, "you're wrong, you're wrong you're wrong yourwrongyourwrong..."
Browning shakes his head. "Figures. Figures you would destroy the only thing your father loved," he states, slowly and deliberately as if talking to someone who did not know much English, "drunk off your mind on father's favorite wine." He chuckles, as if it's hilarious, and waits for Robert to reply.
He doesn't, not right away. The bottle suddenly feels heavy in his hand, so impossibly heavy, and the glass begins to slide beneath his fingers. He can't possibly hold it for much longer.
"You're lying," he whispers, but Browning doesn't hear him. He just turns away from Robert, shaking his head in a gesture that clearly says Well, I've tried, but you're far too gone. "My father loves me." Robert lets the bottle slip from his fingers then, lets it crash onto the floor into a million tiny pieces, his feet surrounded in its remains.
My father loves me.
Browning has to be lying, because that is the only thing keeping him from drinking until he doesn't remember anything at all.
Title; To Live a Lie
Characters; Robert Fischer, Peter Browning
Pairings; None
Rating; PG-13
Word count; 698
Chapter; Completed, one-shot.
NOTES; Written for the inception kink meme. Prompt:
Robert Fischer is only looking so terribly exhausted and weak because he is distraught about his dead father, right?
Everyone who has had inception affected upon them has bad reactions. At least his father still loves him.
MAYBE.
Robert is only vaguely aware of Browning entering the room, the man a mere ghost lapping at the periphery of his senses. He clutches the bottle of wine in his hands, pouring more of it down his throat as if it could wash away the distaste of his guest burning in the back of his throat.
He doesn't know when it got like this between him and Browning. He used to trust him. Hell, he was closer to family to Robert than his father ever was. But that was then. That was before he knew.
"What the hell are you doing, Robert?" Browning rages at him, reaching out to take the bottle from his hands. Robert twirls away from him, the motion much more elegant in his mind than it is in reality - he stumbles into the cabinet next to him, and as Browning watches he swears the boy will shatter upon contact. As it is, Robert feels the cool glass, solid beneath his fingers, begin to slip - but he holds on, tightly, because this wine is from someone - someone important - or, or, it is of some vintage and it is important, important, but he cannot remember why.
"What does it look like?" Robert says, attempting to impart a tone of nonchalance, but with his brain seeped in so much alcohol he's lucky the words come out at all. "I'm drinking."
"I can see that," Browning snaps, pinching the bridge of his nose, "I'm not talking about that." He pauses, then adds as an afterthought, "I'm not talking about that right now. We will." We have to is heavily implied here, and Robert knows it's only time before someone sits him down and pretends to be concerned about the fact he hasn't consumed anything besides alcohol or gotten a single moment of sleep since the plane ride home.
"But there's much more important concerns than my own health, I know, Uncle Peter, I know..." Robert slurs, the last part of his sentence and incomprehensible mumble of words. He lets his head lull slightly, staring at the floor, because he doesn't need to see Browning's face to know the frown marring it.
"Your health is important to me, boy, but you're right in a way. It's going to be the least of our worries - your worries - if you dissolve your father's empire." Before he even finishes speaking, Robert is laughing. "Quit that!" Browning fumes at him, agitation rising. "You're destroying years - decades - of effort. Do you even comprehend the amount of work you're throwing away here? Everything your father strived for - gone."
The laughing stops. Robert is instantly quiet again, and he stares at Browning with such clarity, such certainty, that for a moment Browning wonders if he's managed to sober himself up in an instant. "You're wrong," he says in a low voice. "You're wrong."
"I know you hated your father - hell, I would too, if my father viewed me as such a colossal failure as Maurice thought -" Browning stops then, instantly knowing he's gone too far. Robert just stares back at him, his eyes wide and heartbroken.
"Nonononono," he mumbles, "you're wrong, you're wrong you're wrong yourwrongyourwrong..."
Browning shakes his head. "Figures. Figures you would destroy the only thing your father loved," he states, slowly and deliberately as if talking to someone who did not know much English, "drunk off your mind on father's favorite wine." He chuckles, as if it's hilarious, and waits for Robert to reply.
He doesn't, not right away. The bottle suddenly feels heavy in his hand, so impossibly heavy, and the glass begins to slide beneath his fingers. He can't possibly hold it for much longer.
"You're lying," he whispers, but Browning doesn't hear him. He just turns away from Robert, shaking his head in a gesture that clearly says Well, I've tried, but you're far too gone. "My father loves me." Robert lets the bottle slip from his fingers then, lets it crash onto the floor into a million tiny pieces, his feet surrounded in its remains.
My father loves me.
Browning has to be lying, because that is the only thing keeping him from drinking until he doesn't remember anything at all.