January Drabble Dump!
Only a few from January, as I did some Five Acts stuff that I posted earlier, and a few other fics during the month that ate into my comment_fic time. This month I did some Sherlock (blame brighteyed_jill, she's the enabler who had me watch all of it on New Year's Eve), some Supernatural, Star Trek, and an Inception fic. I'm a well-rounded writer! :D
Night Owls - Sherlock (BBC), John, Sherlock, Lestrade, PG-13'>
Sherlock (BBC) John, Lestrade, Sherlock. John's a werewolf, Sherlock's a vampire, Lestrade's a (nice) demon. Everything else is the same.
Night Owls - Sherlock (BBC), John, Sherlock, Lestrade, PG-13
Sherlock impressed John Watson. Within two minutes of meeting him, he’d managed to divine John’s profession, rank, background, purpose, and had already gotten him three-quarters of the way to sharing a flat. A little later, Sherlock had explained his deductions about John’s family via his phone in a show of observation that truly was remarkable. However, it wasn’t until after the murderer had been shot, well after everyone else had gone to bed and the both of them were awake at a truly indecent hour of the night, that Sherlock could even voice the observation he’d probably realized the second John had walked through the door of the laboratory.
“You were bitten in Afghanistan.”
John nodded tersely. “The same night I was shot. There are wolves in the hills.”
He didn’t want to go into it any further, but undoubtedly Sherlock had already deduced nearly everything he would have said. Being shot in the shoulder during an ambush. Him and his unit having to hide in a small cave as darkness fell. John knowing the wolves were near and that the smell of his blood would attract them. That shooting the wolves would give away their position. Dragging himself out of the cave so he’d be the only casualty. The wolf with glowing eyes sinking his teeth up to the gumline in John’s wounded shoulder, the silver moon hovering above.
The blackness that had followed, only to wake up naked the next morning, surrounded by the shreds of the ambushers.
Yes, the limp had been psychosomatic, at least a little. Because he’d had to be slower, had to tell himself not to run and leap and jump, because he’d been afraid of giving into what he was, not trusting himself. Months of living with the cane had given him the control he’d needed. And he’d thrown it casually away when Sherlock had forced him to run after the cabbie across rooftops and down slick streets. He’d run and leapt and jumped in the dark of the night and hadn’t once felt the inclination to howl.
He had something else to focus his attention now.
“How did you know?” John asked. For once, he thought he already knew the answer.
“Your watch,” Sherlock said, grabbing John’s wrist and turning it over to reveal the large, silver-tone watch under his shirt cuff. “It’s newer than almost anything else that you’re wearing, and decidedly not in your style. It’s top of the line, ostentatious, clearly not something you’d buy for yourself. Unusually, it includes the cycles of the moon on the face. But despite the fact that it’s not something you’ve bought for yourself, you’ve rarely taken it off since it was given to you. Your unit bought it for you after you were bitten.”
John chuffed out a small, half-incredulous laugh, and nodded.
“Obvious.” Sherlock’s tone was triumphant as he turned back to his phone.
“Lestrade’s a demon,” John said casually. Sherlock’s attention refocused on him instantly, as intense as a laser.
“Impressive. Was it the name that gave him away? The slightly thickened fingernails? His stance? The subtle pentacle arrangement on his desk?”
“He smells like sulfur,” John said simply.
Sherlock went into a moment of hyper stillness, the kind that mean his brain was whirling at a million miles a minute.
“He was summoned a few hundred years ago and decided he liked it better up here. Tormenting lawbreakers is far more rewarding than tormenting sinners. His age is the only thing that makes him a marginally competent DI,” Sherlock said tersely. He looked decidedly put out, and John had his own deductions as to why. For one, Sherlock liked impressing other people; being impressed put him in a bad mood.
“You didn’t know werewolves’ sense of smell is just as good in their human form,” John said positively.
“Obviously I shall have to do further experimentation to enlighten myself,” Sherlock said sullenly, turning to face John squarely. “I expect I can count on your cooperation.”
“Certainly. We have all night, don’t we?” John agreed amiably, close the space between them deliberately. He sniffed, filtering out the usual smells of cloth and soap, filling his nose with the immediately-recognizable scent of dirt, blood, and metallic dust that emanated from Sherlock’s pores.
“Of course.” Sherlock gestured for him to precede him into the kitchen-cum-laboratory, flashing the smallest of smiles as he did so. His fangs were just as sharp as John had deduced.
Wrong - Sherlock (BBC), Sherlock, John, PG-13'>
Sherlock (BBC), John, Sherlock - Sherlock tries to convince John his limp is psychosomatic, like he does in the pilot - he fails because he's wrong and it's so very real (and the least of the wounds he suffered as Sherlock's about to find out).
Wrong - Sherlock (BBC), Sherlock, John, PG-13
Sherlock had urged him to run, cracking the whip of danger, need, responsibility, and adventure. And John had gone with him, dashing down streets, running up and down stairs, hurling himself across rooftops. And Sherlock had been immensely smug when he'd heard John behind him every step of the way.
The smugness came to an abrupt and unpalatable end when John almost collapsed on the damp London pavement in the aftermath of the chase.
It hadn't just been a shoulder wound. The limp had not been primarily psychosomatic. What Sherlock hadn't been able to deduce in the aftermath of John's collapse he'd quickly figured out at the hospital. The Afghan bullet had fragmented and gone deep, nicking spinal nerves, ruining muscle pathways, and causing constant real pain. It had taken months of therapy just for John to walk again the first time.
It would take weeks now to repair the damage Sherlock had so wantonly provoked John into doing to himself. Weeks in which John would be in constant agony, partially in a wheelchair, hobbling along with his cane for only a few steps at a time. And even then John hadn't said it was his fault.
His fault. Sherlock's own careless fault for trying to dismiss weakness and urge mind over matter. Even when that matter was shredded and torn. For the first time, in a long time, Sherlock Holmes felt what it was like to be wrong.
Star Trek reboot/Doom, Reaper!Bones, he proves to be far more dangerous than expected (ala The Most Dangerous Game)
Fear the Reaper - Star Trek reboot/Doom, Reaper!Bones, PG-13
The Hunter actually provided him weapons. It was part of his whole "fair play" line of philosophy he'd spouted off, trying to justify snatching Bones and shoving him into his "private reserve." As a matter of fact, the Hunter had given Bones access to his special collection of weapons, he had been so irritated at discovering he'd captured a doctor, and not a security officer. Or a punch-happy captain. And Jim was clearly his next target, once Bones was another trophy on his wall.
"I need to hunt someone with killer instincts. So make this as good as you can, doctor. The longer you keep one step ahead of me, the longer your friend stays oblivious to his eventual fate."
Bones had argued with him, shouted at him, thrown every insult he could. Used reason, used logic (privately thanking Spock), used everything he could to delay the inevitable.
"I'm a doctor, damnit, not a clay pigeon. I heal people, I save them, I don't do this-."
"You don't have a choice, Dr. McCoy. We will hunt. And only one will leave here alive. You have an hour's head start. Go. And make it a good hunt, for your friend's sake."
So Bones had gone, a heavy case slung over his back, the weight oddly negligible for the ship-bound doctor he should have been. A grim smile played over Bones lips when he stopped deeper in the jungle to open the case and load the high-caliber rifle with the ease of long experience.
Jim didn't know. He'd never questioned Leonard's age when he'd joined the academy, believing the story about his ex-wife. Not that it wasn't true, it just wasn't the whole truth. It didn't explain everything he'd done before medical school. Everything he'd tried to leave behind.
But for this, he'd let his past out to play. Jim was good, and he didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve to have to shoot someone in the back. Bones had. Bones was used to it. Let the blood stay on his hands, soldier or doctor, all the same.
The rifle lay before him, sleek and gleaming and deadly. Taking a moment, McCoy took out the small marking laser from his kit and carved a name into the stock. Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, he pumped it once to chamber a round, and then faded into the foliage like a ghost.
The Reaper waited patiently for his prey, ready to scythe down the thing that was keeping him from his new life.
Favors Owed - Star Trek/Firefly/Leverage/Heroes/Inception, McCoy, PG'>
Star Trek reboot/author's choice(s), Bones/Jim, there are a great many people who owe Leonard McCoy favors. After Jim goes and gets himself kidnapped, he calls them in.
Favors Owed - Star Trek/Firefly/Leverage/Heroes/Inception, McCoy, PG
The Federation does not negotiate with terrorists.
That wasn't what the message had said, but that was exactly was McCoy heard. He heard that Captain James T. Kirk, after being kidnapped by the very people he'd been trying to save (liars and thieves, all of them) was not going to be rescued. Not with all the power and money and underhanded dealings the Malcross Syndicate could bring to bear. That was something the Federation could take no part in.
McCoy listened to the message once, and walked out of the briefing meeting, ignoring Spock's token protest. Token, because Spock wasn't stupid.
Leonard McCoy knew people. He'd treated every kind of patient there was. And there were no greater favors owed than those of life and death.
Captain Malcolm Reynolds owed McCoy a lung. And Simon Tam had been a resident when McCoy had been dirtside. Their ship could get close to the Syndicate where any Federation ship would fail.
Eliot Spencer had done dozens of rescues in his day, and McCoy had patched him back together more times than either of them cared to recount. Not to mention the merry band of do-gooders he was hooked up with now specialized in poetic justice against the rich and powerful.
Nathan Petrelli could get Spencer's team inside, the double-dealing back-stabbing shark that he was. His wife owed her spine to McCoy, and Petrelli hated having debts hanging over his head.
If McCoy was feeling generous, and Jim was completely unharmed, he might leave off calling Cobb's team on Malcross himself to destroy the Syndicate from the inside out afterward.
Maybe.
Pushing Out Darkness - Supernatural, Sam/Dean/Cas, NC-17
Sam couldn't stop. Had to have him. Had to fill him. All that darkness inside him, had to get it out. Castiel was light, Castiel was fire, he could burn it away inside him.
"Sam-."
Don't stop. Sam wrapped his arms around him tight, as if simple touch could keep Castiel there. Keep him there because Sam's blood was burning with something like his addiction, but it wasn't that, because it was new, and his cock was throbbing so hard, and Sam knew it wouldn't stop until he was inside...
Castiel twisted in Sam's grasp, and his voice slid to a strange, raspy, wanton moan, rusty for having never been used until now. He was sweating, flushed, looking over his shoulder at Sam before bending to pull himself apart, holding himself open to invite Sam in. And when Sam sunk into him, tight and burning, he convulsed, long pulses of pleasure only taking the slightest edge off his need to purge himself endlessly.
Dean's hand snaked around Sam's waist and tightened as Castiel looked over across Sam's body, making him thrust his hips into his brother's slick fingers, opening him up expertly.
"We're going to fuck it out of you, Sammy. All night long. As long as you need, we're gonna take care of you."
Then Dean stops talking and replaces his fingers with his cock and Sam's body shudders as he comes again, pain and pleasure mingled. Castiel sighs, arching against Sam's body, and Dean pushes in, getting all three of them closer.
Heat pools between them and Sam ignites again, desperate to rid himself of the burning in his blood. Then Castiel growls a blessing and Dean murmurs something obscene and heartfelt, and Sam moves, driving himself back and forth, pushing out the darkness and forcing in the light.
Inception, Arthur, How he missed that Fisher was militarized was eating him up on the inside.
Roll of the Die - Inception, Arthur, PG-13
This job was hard enough as it was. An extraction team had to be a little bit of everything: smooth-talking con artist, beloved confidant, safe-cracker, pick-pocket, hard-line terrorist, world-class sprinter, and martial-arts expert. You had to be willing to share pieces of your head with everyone around you, to let people crawl around inside your mind, picking over your life to use bits of it to create the dream.
You had to bare your relationships in your projections, open up your emotions to find out the danger, and then try to keep everything under wraps to keep the rest of your team safe. A failed extraction usually didn't cause physical harm (unless you had to run from your employer); no, it could cause madness. A dream injury could linger in the mind for weeks, causing a kind of mental post-traumatic stress disorder. Having to kill someone in a dream was really no better, if the consequences were lighter. It disturbed Arthur sometimes how easy it had been for Cobb to just raise the gun and shoot him between the eyes the last time they had been in Saito's mind. He'd felt phantom pain in his leg for days afterward, and a tingle between his eyes every time he'd looked at Cobb.
And now this. The Inception had succeeded, no thanks to him. It was as complicated a job as they had ever done, and he'd gone and added a whole new and different level of clusterfuck by somehow not noticing that Robert Fisher was defended. Oh no Arthur, he told himself sarcastically, that's completely normal that Fisher would have no training. Normal that the heir to a multi-billion dollar company poised to become a new world superpower wouldn't have covered that front on his personal security. Idiot.
Eames had been rushed, forced to compress weeks of his careful observations into a mere hour's work of forgery, and then spend the rest of his time running around like a commando, courting limbo to keep the job afloat. Yusef should have just been a lookout, and had been forced to become an action hero. Cobb had nearly lost control of his own projections, forced to a painful confrontation at the worst possible time. Ariadne had been dragged down deeper than anyone should have had to go, and had to throw herself off a tower just to keep the dreams intact. And Saito... they'd been lucky Saito was strong, because he died for Arthur's mistake. Died after far too long in agony, and spent decades in limbo for Arthur's carelessness.
Arthur blinked against the light as he came back to consciousness, and absently reached into his pocket for his totem. He didn't roll it, didn't check to see whether he was awake or asleep. It didn't matter. The guilt stayed with him, waking or sleeping. A roll of the die couldn't change that.
Night Owls - Sherlock (BBC), John, Sherlock, Lestrade, PG-13'>
Sherlock (BBC) John, Lestrade, Sherlock. John's a werewolf, Sherlock's a vampire, Lestrade's a (nice) demon. Everything else is the same.
Night Owls - Sherlock (BBC), John, Sherlock, Lestrade, PG-13
Sherlock impressed John Watson. Within two minutes of meeting him, he’d managed to divine John’s profession, rank, background, purpose, and had already gotten him three-quarters of the way to sharing a flat. A little later, Sherlock had explained his deductions about John’s family via his phone in a show of observation that truly was remarkable. However, it wasn’t until after the murderer had been shot, well after everyone else had gone to bed and the both of them were awake at a truly indecent hour of the night, that Sherlock could even voice the observation he’d probably realized the second John had walked through the door of the laboratory.
“You were bitten in Afghanistan.”
John nodded tersely. “The same night I was shot. There are wolves in the hills.”
He didn’t want to go into it any further, but undoubtedly Sherlock had already deduced nearly everything he would have said. Being shot in the shoulder during an ambush. Him and his unit having to hide in a small cave as darkness fell. John knowing the wolves were near and that the smell of his blood would attract them. That shooting the wolves would give away their position. Dragging himself out of the cave so he’d be the only casualty. The wolf with glowing eyes sinking his teeth up to the gumline in John’s wounded shoulder, the silver moon hovering above.
The blackness that had followed, only to wake up naked the next morning, surrounded by the shreds of the ambushers.
Yes, the limp had been psychosomatic, at least a little. Because he’d had to be slower, had to tell himself not to run and leap and jump, because he’d been afraid of giving into what he was, not trusting himself. Months of living with the cane had given him the control he’d needed. And he’d thrown it casually away when Sherlock had forced him to run after the cabbie across rooftops and down slick streets. He’d run and leapt and jumped in the dark of the night and hadn’t once felt the inclination to howl.
He had something else to focus his attention now.
“How did you know?” John asked. For once, he thought he already knew the answer.
“Your watch,” Sherlock said, grabbing John’s wrist and turning it over to reveal the large, silver-tone watch under his shirt cuff. “It’s newer than almost anything else that you’re wearing, and decidedly not in your style. It’s top of the line, ostentatious, clearly not something you’d buy for yourself. Unusually, it includes the cycles of the moon on the face. But despite the fact that it’s not something you’ve bought for yourself, you’ve rarely taken it off since it was given to you. Your unit bought it for you after you were bitten.”
John chuffed out a small, half-incredulous laugh, and nodded.
“Obvious.” Sherlock’s tone was triumphant as he turned back to his phone.
“Lestrade’s a demon,” John said casually. Sherlock’s attention refocused on him instantly, as intense as a laser.
“Impressive. Was it the name that gave him away? The slightly thickened fingernails? His stance? The subtle pentacle arrangement on his desk?”
“He smells like sulfur,” John said simply.
Sherlock went into a moment of hyper stillness, the kind that mean his brain was whirling at a million miles a minute.
“He was summoned a few hundred years ago and decided he liked it better up here. Tormenting lawbreakers is far more rewarding than tormenting sinners. His age is the only thing that makes him a marginally competent DI,” Sherlock said tersely. He looked decidedly put out, and John had his own deductions as to why. For one, Sherlock liked impressing other people; being impressed put him in a bad mood.
“You didn’t know werewolves’ sense of smell is just as good in their human form,” John said positively.
“Obviously I shall have to do further experimentation to enlighten myself,” Sherlock said sullenly, turning to face John squarely. “I expect I can count on your cooperation.”
“Certainly. We have all night, don’t we?” John agreed amiably, close the space between them deliberately. He sniffed, filtering out the usual smells of cloth and soap, filling his nose with the immediately-recognizable scent of dirt, blood, and metallic dust that emanated from Sherlock’s pores.
“Of course.” Sherlock gestured for him to precede him into the kitchen-cum-laboratory, flashing the smallest of smiles as he did so. His fangs were just as sharp as John had deduced.
Wrong - Sherlock (BBC), Sherlock, John, PG-13'>
Sherlock (BBC), John, Sherlock - Sherlock tries to convince John his limp is psychosomatic, like he does in the pilot - he fails because he's wrong and it's so very real (and the least of the wounds he suffered as Sherlock's about to find out).
Wrong - Sherlock (BBC), Sherlock, John, PG-13
Sherlock had urged him to run, cracking the whip of danger, need, responsibility, and adventure. And John had gone with him, dashing down streets, running up and down stairs, hurling himself across rooftops. And Sherlock had been immensely smug when he'd heard John behind him every step of the way.
The smugness came to an abrupt and unpalatable end when John almost collapsed on the damp London pavement in the aftermath of the chase.
It hadn't just been a shoulder wound. The limp had not been primarily psychosomatic. What Sherlock hadn't been able to deduce in the aftermath of John's collapse he'd quickly figured out at the hospital. The Afghan bullet had fragmented and gone deep, nicking spinal nerves, ruining muscle pathways, and causing constant real pain. It had taken months of therapy just for John to walk again the first time.
It would take weeks now to repair the damage Sherlock had so wantonly provoked John into doing to himself. Weeks in which John would be in constant agony, partially in a wheelchair, hobbling along with his cane for only a few steps at a time. And even then John hadn't said it was his fault.
His fault. Sherlock's own careless fault for trying to dismiss weakness and urge mind over matter. Even when that matter was shredded and torn. For the first time, in a long time, Sherlock Holmes felt what it was like to be wrong.
Star Trek reboot/Doom, Reaper!Bones, he proves to be far more dangerous than expected (ala The Most Dangerous Game)
Fear the Reaper - Star Trek reboot/Doom, Reaper!Bones, PG-13
The Hunter actually provided him weapons. It was part of his whole "fair play" line of philosophy he'd spouted off, trying to justify snatching Bones and shoving him into his "private reserve." As a matter of fact, the Hunter had given Bones access to his special collection of weapons, he had been so irritated at discovering he'd captured a doctor, and not a security officer. Or a punch-happy captain. And Jim was clearly his next target, once Bones was another trophy on his wall.
"I need to hunt someone with killer instincts. So make this as good as you can, doctor. The longer you keep one step ahead of me, the longer your friend stays oblivious to his eventual fate."
Bones had argued with him, shouted at him, thrown every insult he could. Used reason, used logic (privately thanking Spock), used everything he could to delay the inevitable.
"I'm a doctor, damnit, not a clay pigeon. I heal people, I save them, I don't do this-."
"You don't have a choice, Dr. McCoy. We will hunt. And only one will leave here alive. You have an hour's head start. Go. And make it a good hunt, for your friend's sake."
So Bones had gone, a heavy case slung over his back, the weight oddly negligible for the ship-bound doctor he should have been. A grim smile played over Bones lips when he stopped deeper in the jungle to open the case and load the high-caliber rifle with the ease of long experience.
Jim didn't know. He'd never questioned Leonard's age when he'd joined the academy, believing the story about his ex-wife. Not that it wasn't true, it just wasn't the whole truth. It didn't explain everything he'd done before medical school. Everything he'd tried to leave behind.
But for this, he'd let his past out to play. Jim was good, and he didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve to have to shoot someone in the back. Bones had. Bones was used to it. Let the blood stay on his hands, soldier or doctor, all the same.
The rifle lay before him, sleek and gleaming and deadly. Taking a moment, McCoy took out the small marking laser from his kit and carved a name into the stock. Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, he pumped it once to chamber a round, and then faded into the foliage like a ghost.
The Reaper waited patiently for his prey, ready to scythe down the thing that was keeping him from his new life.
Favors Owed - Star Trek/Firefly/Leverage/Heroes/Inception, McCoy, PG'>
Star Trek reboot/author's choice(s), Bones/Jim, there are a great many people who owe Leonard McCoy favors. After Jim goes and gets himself kidnapped, he calls them in.
Favors Owed - Star Trek/Firefly/Leverage/Heroes/Inception, McCoy, PG
The Federation does not negotiate with terrorists.
That wasn't what the message had said, but that was exactly was McCoy heard. He heard that Captain James T. Kirk, after being kidnapped by the very people he'd been trying to save (liars and thieves, all of them) was not going to be rescued. Not with all the power and money and underhanded dealings the Malcross Syndicate could bring to bear. That was something the Federation could take no part in.
McCoy listened to the message once, and walked out of the briefing meeting, ignoring Spock's token protest. Token, because Spock wasn't stupid.
Leonard McCoy knew people. He'd treated every kind of patient there was. And there were no greater favors owed than those of life and death.
Captain Malcolm Reynolds owed McCoy a lung. And Simon Tam had been a resident when McCoy had been dirtside. Their ship could get close to the Syndicate where any Federation ship would fail.
Eliot Spencer had done dozens of rescues in his day, and McCoy had patched him back together more times than either of them cared to recount. Not to mention the merry band of do-gooders he was hooked up with now specialized in poetic justice against the rich and powerful.
Nathan Petrelli could get Spencer's team inside, the double-dealing back-stabbing shark that he was. His wife owed her spine to McCoy, and Petrelli hated having debts hanging over his head.
If McCoy was feeling generous, and Jim was completely unharmed, he might leave off calling Cobb's team on Malcross himself to destroy the Syndicate from the inside out afterward.
Maybe.
Pushing Out Darkness - Supernatural, Sam/Dean/Cas, NC-17
Sam couldn't stop. Had to have him. Had to fill him. All that darkness inside him, had to get it out. Castiel was light, Castiel was fire, he could burn it away inside him.
"Sam-."
Don't stop. Sam wrapped his arms around him tight, as if simple touch could keep Castiel there. Keep him there because Sam's blood was burning with something like his addiction, but it wasn't that, because it was new, and his cock was throbbing so hard, and Sam knew it wouldn't stop until he was inside...
Castiel twisted in Sam's grasp, and his voice slid to a strange, raspy, wanton moan, rusty for having never been used until now. He was sweating, flushed, looking over his shoulder at Sam before bending to pull himself apart, holding himself open to invite Sam in. And when Sam sunk into him, tight and burning, he convulsed, long pulses of pleasure only taking the slightest edge off his need to purge himself endlessly.
Dean's hand snaked around Sam's waist and tightened as Castiel looked over across Sam's body, making him thrust his hips into his brother's slick fingers, opening him up expertly.
"We're going to fuck it out of you, Sammy. All night long. As long as you need, we're gonna take care of you."
Then Dean stops talking and replaces his fingers with his cock and Sam's body shudders as he comes again, pain and pleasure mingled. Castiel sighs, arching against Sam's body, and Dean pushes in, getting all three of them closer.
Heat pools between them and Sam ignites again, desperate to rid himself of the burning in his blood. Then Castiel growls a blessing and Dean murmurs something obscene and heartfelt, and Sam moves, driving himself back and forth, pushing out the darkness and forcing in the light.
Inception, Arthur, How he missed that Fisher was militarized was eating him up on the inside.
Roll of the Die - Inception, Arthur, PG-13
This job was hard enough as it was. An extraction team had to be a little bit of everything: smooth-talking con artist, beloved confidant, safe-cracker, pick-pocket, hard-line terrorist, world-class sprinter, and martial-arts expert. You had to be willing to share pieces of your head with everyone around you, to let people crawl around inside your mind, picking over your life to use bits of it to create the dream.
You had to bare your relationships in your projections, open up your emotions to find out the danger, and then try to keep everything under wraps to keep the rest of your team safe. A failed extraction usually didn't cause physical harm (unless you had to run from your employer); no, it could cause madness. A dream injury could linger in the mind for weeks, causing a kind of mental post-traumatic stress disorder. Having to kill someone in a dream was really no better, if the consequences were lighter. It disturbed Arthur sometimes how easy it had been for Cobb to just raise the gun and shoot him between the eyes the last time they had been in Saito's mind. He'd felt phantom pain in his leg for days afterward, and a tingle between his eyes every time he'd looked at Cobb.
And now this. The Inception had succeeded, no thanks to him. It was as complicated a job as they had ever done, and he'd gone and added a whole new and different level of clusterfuck by somehow not noticing that Robert Fisher was defended. Oh no Arthur, he told himself sarcastically, that's completely normal that Fisher would have no training. Normal that the heir to a multi-billion dollar company poised to become a new world superpower wouldn't have covered that front on his personal security. Idiot.
Eames had been rushed, forced to compress weeks of his careful observations into a mere hour's work of forgery, and then spend the rest of his time running around like a commando, courting limbo to keep the job afloat. Yusef should have just been a lookout, and had been forced to become an action hero. Cobb had nearly lost control of his own projections, forced to a painful confrontation at the worst possible time. Ariadne had been dragged down deeper than anyone should have had to go, and had to throw herself off a tower just to keep the dreams intact. And Saito... they'd been lucky Saito was strong, because he died for Arthur's mistake. Died after far too long in agony, and spent decades in limbo for Arthur's carelessness.
Arthur blinked against the light as he came back to consciousness, and absently reached into his pocket for his totem. He didn't roll it, didn't check to see whether he was awake or asleep. It didn't matter. The guilt stayed with him, waking or sleeping. A roll of the die couldn't change that.