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alchemyaliceSo, 'On the Wings of War' is going to be late this week, because my muse is a fickle bastard who loves Inception way too effing much.
Here's what I've been doing with my time instead. There will probably be more in the near future. All of them are for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
inception_kink , but because it's me, they aren't particularly kinky.
Title: In Pursuit of Mr. Charles
Rating: PG
Prompt: Cobb/Fischer. After the movie Robert becomes obsessed with the man in his dream and he actually manages to track Cobb down. Cue borderline obsessive stalking consisting of random phone calls, showing up at Cobb's house etc. Cobb is freaking out. The rest of the team finds it hilarious. Eventually Robert wins. ;)
It doesn’t take long. About three months of therapy followed by two-hour session with a sketch artist.
And then Robert Fischer Jr. has a name to go with a face.
Dominic Cobb. Not Charles at all, but somehow more suitable, more solid. And Robert hadn’t remembered the sharpness of his eyes.
Cobb doesn’t know this, of course. The first he hears of it is when he gets a call he almost doesn’t answer.
“Saito?”
“Cobb. Have you spoken to anyone from the job recently?”
Cobb looks out the window to the sight of Philippa and James chasing one another along the edges of the lawn, Philippa waving a stuffed elephant in the air. “Just you. Why?”
“There are whispers that someone is looking for you, in relation to it.”
Cobb could feel the muscles in his shoulders lock. “What sort of someone?”
“No authorities—you needn’t worry about that.” And something in Saito’s tone suggests that Cobb really doesn’t need to worry. It’s really very handy to have a friend like Saito. “But someone involved.”
“You’ve been in contact with the others?”
“Not yet. Shall I call them?”
“Please.” It isn’t that Cobb doesn’t want to talk to them, eventually. But three months isn’t long enough, and he needs a hell of a lot more distance before he feels like he can talk to any of them rationally.
He knew they understood. If they hadn’t, they’d have called him by now.
“Very well,” Saito replied. “I’ll let you know if anything else comes up.”
“Thank you.”
***
Two days later, he sees him and nearly has a heart attack. “Oh Jesus Christ.”
Miles raises an eyebrow after looking up from chopping tomatoes at the kitchen counter. Then he follows Dom’s gaze. “There’s a man staring at your house. Do you know him?”
“Somewhat,” Dom hedges.
The phone rings. Miles answers, and then almost immediately passes it to Dom.
Ariadne is mid-sentence. “—and I think you should talk to him, because we messed with his head and he just sounded so lost--“
“You talked to him?” Dom interrupted, blinking rapidly.
“Well of course. You were listed as one of my intership advisors. And he’s really sweet, you know. Not really a corporate type at all.”
“Ariadne, he’s standing across the street from my house.”
“Oh good!” And that really wasn’t the reaction Dom was looking for. “You should definitely talk to him, then.”
“He looks like a stalker. His suit is rumpled.”
“We stalked him first,” Ariadne reasons. “And he probably flew from London or something.”
Cobb hangs up, and immediately dials a different number. “Arthur—“
“Is this about Fischer?” Arthur cuts him off.
“He’s in front of my house!”
“That’s what you get for being his Mr. Charles,” Arthur retorts. “You’re his subconscious hero now. Deal with it.”
“What if he’s taken it too far? What if he’s—“
“Cobb.” Arthur’s clean-cut exasperation is clear as a bell down the line, despite the many hundreds of miles between them. “He’s not going to be like Mal. The idea we planted was to do with the past, not the present.”
Cobb shakes his head, but he looks out his window again and watches the confusion of emotions tracing their way across Fischer’s face. He hears Arthur sigh.
“Look, he probably just wants to know why you’re familiar to him. It’s probably safe to talk to him, so long as you don’t tell him about the inception.”
“He probably wants to shag you, mate!”
Cobb freezes. “Eames?”
“I’m trying to have a civilized conversation,” Arthur says, away from the receiver. “If you’d just—“
Cobb listens bemusedly to the sounds of a mostly suit-based scuffle, and then Eames is booming over the line. “You’re his bloody saviour. He probably wants you to pat him on the head and tell him he’s safe now. And if you’re lucky, he may also be inclined to suck your—“
“Eames!” Arthur reprimands, taking the phone back with several sounds of struggle and cufflinks clacking. And then, “Sorry. It’s probably not that, he probably just wants to talk to you.”
“Are you and Eames--?”
“None of your business, Cobb,” Arthur replies smoothly. “I’m hanging up now. If you ever feel like getting back in the game, you know who to call.”
The line goes dead. Cobb stares at the phone for a long moment.
Miles’ eyebrows are up around his receding hairline, which is damned impressive, really. “I’m guessing you’re not the only one who knows our friend outside?” he says eventually.
“Yeah,” Dom says slowly. “And they’re a lot less alarmed about it than I am.”
“Maybe they’re right.”
Dom pinches the bridge of his nose, and says eventually, “He’s probably cold out there. It’s November, and he’s not wearing a coat.”
“Why don’t you ask him in, then?”
Dom’s already at the door, slinging on a coat. He pulls it open, and strides out.
Fischer jumps like he’s been shot when the door slams. He watches with wide eyes as Cobb crosses the street.
“Hi there,” Dom says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Can I help you?”
Fischer guppies for a long second, and then says, “You’re…?”
“Dominic Cobb. And you’re Robert Fischer’s son. We met on a plane.”
A small fraction of Fischer’s expression clears, but the rest is a mad blur of caution and hope and desperation. “Yes. Yes, I suppose we did. You retrieved my passport.”
“Good memory,” Dom says, with a slight smile.
Fischer seems to waver for a moment, looking pathetically torn, before he impulsively grabs the sleeve of Dom’s coat. “I’m really very sorry,” he says in a rush, “But I keep seeing you. Not seeing you, seeing you, just…I keep remembering you. Your face. And I don’t understand why, but you’re just always there, and not in a threatening way, just the opposite in fact, and I don’t—“
“Mr. Fischer,” Dom cuts in, and he realizes with some amazement that the tightness in his shoulders has eased, and that he has no compunction about taking the hand on his sleeve gently away and then transferring his grip to the slighter man’s elbow. “It’s quite all right. You look cold. Would you like to come inside for a cup of tea?”
Fischer stares at him. And then exhales, his whole body slumping just slightly with what Dom surmises is a mixture of exhaustion and relief. “That sounds…pleasant,” he manages. “Thank you.”
Dom lets him press close as he leads the way back to the house. Fischer radiates heat like he’s incapable of keeping any for himself.
“Do you like kids?” he inquires, never taking his hand from Fischer’s elbow. “I have a son and daughter. I think they’ll like you.”
Title: Galvanized
Rating: PG
Prompt: Cobb/Fischer - steampunk dream (something equally science-fiction-y would work, too). Really I just want more Cobb/Fischer porn, so.
Fischer recognized him. Cobb hadn’t really been expecting that.
It was a risk he knew he had to take, but they’d been two layers down last time, and usually things like names and faces were the things to get buried under the rubble of waking first. So he’d thought it unlikely that this second round would be cause for concern.
Arthur had argued against it. Had argued about checking up on Fischer in general. Cobb ought to start listening to him more.
But he’d seen in the papers how violently Fischer had pulled his father’s empire apart, and the blows he’d taken from the board of directors. And Saito had said over the phone that Fischer had begun to look gaunt and tired.
Cobb didn’t want to be responsible for another Mal.
Ariadne had outdone herself this time around. He’d had asked for warmth and elevation, to make the atmosphere inviting but also full of quick exits, and she’d smiled, and delved into blueprints with renewed enthusiasm.
When they first entered into the dream, he raised an eyebrow.
“I’ve been reading a lot of Sherlock Holmes, lately,” she admitted.
Cobb didn’t mind. There was something to be said for 19th century fashion, though this was a landscape no 19th century traveler, not even the great detective himself, would have been comfortable with.
He looked out the window of the zeppelin, which drifted above iron city spires and austere brick architecture, steam and smoke rising from factory chimneys in vast plumes. The sun filtered golden through diaphanous clouds to illuminate Fischer’s projections, all of them in garb of Victorian splendor at the height of the Empire.
Fischer’s security was still in place as well, possibly stronger than ever. They were identical, and easy to spot in brass and leather gas masks and steam-powered arm modifications. Cobb was fairly sure they had rail guns instead of left hands, and clockwork for hearts. They’d be hard to kill, if there was trouble.
They hadn’t noticed the intrusion yet, however.
With Ariadne in tow, Cobb entered the ballroom at the center of the zeppelin’s belly, and caught sight of Fischer at the bar. He cut a slender figure in charcoal gray slacks and waistcoat, morning coat laid carefully over the bar, and the chain of a gold pocket watch looping from one buttonhole to the vest pocket. He carried with him a cane with a baroque brass knob, which was now resting against the barstool.
“Cobb?” Ariadne asked uncertainly.
He turned; he hadn’t realized he’d been staring. “Why don’t you mingle? I’ll talk to him,” he said.
She nodded, still looking unsure, and headed over to one of the empty tables.
Cobb made his way as unobtrusively as possible through the crowd. As soon as Fischer caught sight of him, however, he knew the game had changed.
Fischer…smiled. “Mr. Charles,” he said. “It’s good to see you.”
Cobb raised his eyebrows; he couldn’t help it. “I should think my presence would be more cause for alarm, given I am your head of security.”
“Is my security compromised?” Fischer inquired, his expression unreadable.
“Not presently,” Cobb replied, “Though we’re vigilant, as always.”
A small furrow appeared on Fischer’s brow. “You seem different from when I saw you last,” he commented.
Cobb blinked. “How long ago was that?”
“Three weeks ago, when the extractor from my father’s company tried to get to me. You don’t remember?”
“I’m a projection,” Cobb said slowly, trying to process what Fischer was implying. “I know whatever your subconscious wants me to know at any given time.”
Fischer seemed to consider this, and find it acceptable. He looked down at the bar. “I suppose I just want conversation, then. Funny, that I should want that in a dream.”
“Perhaps you haven’t gotten enough of it while you’re awake,” Cobb suggested.
Fischer’s smile was crooked and rueful. “I think you’ve hit the nail on the head with that one.”
And so they talked. Cobb regretted the time limit—he’d only planned for a few hours. Fischer was a good conversationalist; he began hesitantly, but slowly opened up about the progress he’d made with the dismantling of his father’s empire, and the anxiety he still harbored about his future. Cobb tried only to listen, but occasionally he found himself adding small comments that he knew were dangerously personal, though he tried to keep them vague.
Eventually they both paused. And then Fischer said quietly, “Sometimes I don’t think you’re a projection at all.”
Cobb tensed. Fischer continued, passing the knob of his cane between his hands, watching it swing back and forth with down-turned eyes. He tucked his chin down like he was trying to hide himself in the confines of his crisp high collar. “You look after me in a way I never look after myself. You’re…different.”
“I think you’ve just gotten stronger,” Cobb said eventually.
“Hm. I doubt it. This whole thing with the corporation…I’m getting really tired of being despised.”
“I can’t see anyone despising you,” he said, without thinking.
Fischer looked up sharply. And then he said, “You’re not a projection.”
Cobb felt his jaw go tight. Out of the corners of his eyes, he could see the other projections turning to look at them, the clockwork guards stepping forward. He put a hand in his pocket, fingers grazing the pulse bomb at his belt, feeling its brass contours and placing one finger on the activation switch. “Why do you say that?” he said carefully.
“If there’s one thing I know well about myself, it’s my level of self-respect,” Fischer said simply. “Yours is much higher. What are you doing here?”
Cobb saw Ariadne stand abruptly, one automaton’s rail gun arm trained on her. “Cobb?” she called.
“Let me explain,” Cobb said.
Fischer’s eyes darted to the clockwork guards, who had begun to advance, one of them grabbing Ariadne in a steel grip. She winced and struggled.
“Stop them,” Cobb said, grabbing Fischer’s arm. “We’re not here to harm you.”
Fischer looked at him, eyes wary, and eventually said, “I don’t know how. I was only ever taught defense, not control.”
Cobb closed his eyes for a moment. “Okay,” he said. “Then what I’m about to do isn’t an attack, it’s to give us more time, do you understand.”
“I don’t know why I’m trusting you,” Fischer murmured.
Cobb didn’t say anything. He hit the activation switch on the bomb, drew it out as it whined and charged, and then slammed it hard on the bar counter.
The blast sent them all reeling to the deck, projections and automatons alike. Cobb lunged for Fischer as it rippled out, shielding him as much as he could. Electricity sizzled as the clockwork guards blew gaskets and faltered, falling useless to the ground.
Cobb looked down at where he’d landed, and found Fischer staring up at him. The man felt lithe and bony beneath him, and oddly warm. Cobb swallowed.
“What’s your real name?” Fischer asked. He sounded out of breath.
“Cobb. Dominic Cobb,” Cobb said. He couldn’t look away. “You can call me Dom.”
“Cobb!” Ariadne shouted from across the room. “The zeppelin is crashing! We’re waking up in two minutes, max!”
At that point Cobb became aware of the unsteady tilt and creak of the floor, and of falling. He swore under his breath.
“We wake up when we die here, right?” Fischer asked suddenly, gripping Cobb’s shoulder.
Cobb nodded. The zeppelin shrieked as it began to plummet.
“And you’ll be there?” Fischer demanded.
Cobb nodded again.
Then Fischer seized him by the lapels and pulled.
The kiss was searing—sudden and hard, and Cobb opened under it out of sheer surprise. But then Fischer deepened it, and he followed all the way down. When the slighter man pulled back, he felt drugged.
“You’re going to explain all of this to me,” Fischer hissed, one hand deep in Cobb’s hair. “But after that, I want to know you. Not just my projection of you.”
Cobb took a breath to answer. And then the zeppelin groaned and cracked against one of Ariadne’s beautiful, massive spires.
And their world exploded.
***
Ariadne opened her eyes with a start, taking in the empty first class train car with a glance. Trees darted past the window.
Arthur was at her side instantly. “What happened?” he demanded. “You’re back ahead of schedule.”
“We all will be,” she answered, shaking herself to clear her head. “The zeppelin exploded.”
“Shit, we need to get out of here.”
“No, wait,” she held up a hand, and looked at the slowly waking forms of Fischer and Cobb.
“Fischer’s going to see us,” Arthur protested, “We need to go right now!”
Fischer opened his eyes almost at the same time as Cobb. Ariadne watched them both.
Fischer blinked, hard, and then sat up abruptly, ripping the IV from his arm. He gave Arthur and Ariadne a cursory glance, and then his focus came on hawklike as Cobb’s eyes focused.
“Dom?” he said, uncertainly, standing on shaky legs and then going to kneel in front of Cobb’s chair.
“’Dom’? Arthur echoed, incredulously. Ariadne elbowed him into silence.
Cobb looked at Fischer and took a breath. “The first time, you were a mark,” he said quietly. “This time, I just wanted to know that you were okay.”
Fischer shook his head. “That’s the worst explanation I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s going to have to be enough.”
Fischer looked down. Tentatively, Cobb sat forward and laid a hand on the nape of his neck. It was almost strange to feel the modern, crisp collar of an oxford and tie under his hand instead of the starched wingtips and layered cravat. “I meant what I said,” he said slowly. “I don’t think it’s possible to despise you.”
Fischer exhaled harshly.
Cobb said, “I’ll keep telling you until you agree.”
Ariadne, ignoring Arthur’s incredulous noises, smiled.
Title: The Importance of Proper Weaponry
Rating: PG
Prompt: Ariadne/Cobb. EHEM. SWORDS. SWORDS. SWORDS.
“What’s our profile, Arthur?” Cobb said, sitting back in his chair in the warehouse.
Arthur pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow. Then he perused his notes. “Gerard Underwood, CEO of High Dynamics. Harvard educated, graduated middle of his class not because his grades were low, but because he kept getting into trouble. Disciplinary hearings were like another class for him. It shows in how he does business as well. Word on the street is, he’s a sick fuck. And he’s highly trained in mind security. Overpopulated, too.”
Eames swore under his breath. Ariadne frowned. “What do you mean, overpopulated?”
“It means his dreams tend to be dense with projections,” Cobb said, looking at his hands. “It’s common among schizophrenics, but occasionally shows up in sociopaths, which is what our Mr. Underwood appears to be. It means we can’t go in there with guns because we’d run out of ammunition too fast and they get increasingly useless at short range.”
“What’s the alternative, then?”
Arthur smiled crookedly. “How’s your fencing arm?”
***
Ariadne decided on a proper rapier, in the end. She dreamed it up after reading too much Dumas so that when she arrived in Arthur’s dreamscape along with the others it felt comfortable in her hand, a heavy warm weight with an elegant bowl of a basket hilt thick with filigree. She thought it both appropriately tough and feminine. Eames smirked at it in approval. “Lovely, darling,” he drawled. “And does it come with the matching dagger?”
Ariadne smiled, and flashed the smaller blade in her opposite hand. Yes, she rather liked that part of this set up as well.
Eames was utterly predictable. A solid two-handed claymore that came up past his waist.
“Can you even lift that thing?” Arthur said dryly.
“Hasn’t failed me yet,” Eames replied. “Besides, who said I can’t dream it light and maneuverable, too?”
“It doesn’t always have to be bigger, you know.”
“Says you, mate.”
Arthur was predictable too. A thin katana was sheathed at his belt, the harness fitting perfectly beneath his waistcoat, not even wrinkling his trousers. Ariadne had no doubt in her mind that he knew how to use it.
Eames scoffed. “You’ve watched Kill Bill too many times.”
“You’re just jealous your sword can’t cut bone without shattering it to pieces. I prefer my fantastical violence clean.”
“Are you all ready yet?” Cobb interrupted, striding forward. Ariadne took a moment to stare.
She honestly hadn’t known what to expect from Cobb’s venture into more medieval weaponry. She’d always associated him with handguns, maybe pistols, rarely heavy artillery. But always modern. She had imagined a military saber from the 1940s or something. Hell, imagining what someone like Robert Fischer would bring in had been easier.
(Sword stick, without a doubt. Ariadne imagined him in one of his lovely corporate suits and an elegant black cane with a polished curved handle. She might have drawn some sketches.)
But Cobb hadn’t gone modern at all. Gripped loosely in one hand was a wickedly sharpened short sword with a wide, straight blade that it only took half a second for Ariadne to recognize.
The Roman Gladius. The sword that conquered the world.
And suddenly she got a flash of Cobb in her mind, in a different time and place, wearing the armor of a Roman legionnaire, clear eyes looking out past the horizon from beneath a golden helm, sword in hand, ever ready for battle.
She blinked, hard.
This was going to be a very distracting job.
Title: Sense Memory
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Ariadne/Cobb: He plays piano in a jazz band
It was six months after the inception, and Ariadne returned to university with eyes opened. It was hard to adjust, to say the least. Often times she found herself drifting in class, and wasting precious time she should have been spending on her projects sketching impossible buildings that stretched in every direction, buildings that the sensible part of her brain (a part long dormant) told her were silly, but that she knew could be real…just not real, real.
Her tutors spoke in admiration of her vision, but clucked their tongues in disapproval at her lack of focus.
And then six months passed, and her phone rang with an unidentified caller ID.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Ariadne. Is this a bad time?”
Six months, and his voice was still jarringly familiar. She sat down heavily on her bed. “Cobb! How are you? How are your kids?”
He laughed quietly, “We’re all good. Things are good. I’m not actually with them at the moment, though. I’m in Paris.”
“Oh! Wow. That’s really great. We should catch up.” She could feel her voice being too clipped, too chirpy. She grimaced slightly.
“I’d like that,” he replied. “When are you free?”
They ended up getting coffee. Cobb was still working in dreams, though in a more legitimate sector of mindwork. “Psychotherapy,” he said, with an ironic smile. “I build safe places for disturbed minds to dream in.”
“That’s great,” Ariadne said, smiling more fully.
They talked about Paris, about Ariadne’s work at university, about James and Philippa. Ariadne found that she started counting the number of times Cobb smiled fully, with peace in his eyes even when they’re shadowed with lingering sadness. She asked after Arthur and Eames.
“Arthur is still a point man,” Cobb said, with a worry she found endearing. “Last I heard he was working in Budapest. Hopefully with someone who knows what he’s doing.”
And Eames?
“Who knows?” he rolled his eyes. “He always has something. I’m sure they’re both fine. They’re the best at what they do.”
Coffee turned into a lunch date the next day, after Cobb’s morning meeting with a client. Lunch became a long lunch, became a long wander through the streets and alleyways, followed by dinner. Dinner was in a tiny piano bar Ariadne had never known about despite it being in her neighborhood.
It’s not a performance night, but when the room was nearly empty, and they’re halfway through the second bottle of wine they’re sharing, she noticed that Cobb’s gaze kept sliding to the upright piano in the corner.
“Do you play?” she asked curiously.
He turned back to her and his smile was crooked this time. “I used to. Mal used to sing. I haven’t since she…” he trailed off.
Ariadne watched him. “They’re near closing. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”
There’s a flash of pain that dissipates, and then a small sparkle of something glimmered in his eye. He stood, and offered his hand.
She took it, and he lead her over to the piano where he settled on one side of the bench, leaving room for her to perch, facing away from the keys. He’s hesitant, but as soon as he started, his shoulders relaxed, his wrists supple and straight.
Ariadne closed her eyes. It’s soft, winding Parisian jazz, easy on the chromatics but willing to linger on the leading tones. Cobb’s touch was sensitive and soft, and she wondered how she never noticed the pads of his fingertips, rounded out beyond neatly cut nails from a lifetime of playing.
She could imagine Mal, leaning in effortless elegance like a panther over the piano, singing and smiling at her husband.
She tried not to imagine it, though. She watched Cobb instead, whose expression was relaxed and easy in concentration.
The music drifted, chords rolled beneath a simple melody. She looked between the shifting of the tendons beneath the skin of his hands, and his face, its arresting contrast of pale features and dark countenance, eyes too old for his years and yet still startling and handsome.
She realized with a sort of compressed ache expanding in her chest, that she desperately wanted to kiss him, and for him in turn to press his nose into her throat, breathe her in and say her name into her jaw line.
She felt herself swaying into his space.
The song ended. He pulled away from the keys and looked at her. Smiled with the affection of a father.
Ariadne felt her throat go tight. But she smiled back at him.
Two days later, Cobb is back in Los Angeles, his work in Paris finished. He leaves with Ariadne a list of reputable companies who would value her dream work and pay handsomely for it. “Your talents are wasted in the real world,” he says, and kisses her cheek. “Your work is beautiful out here, but it’s doubly so in there. Think about it.”
She does. And she’ll probably use that list as soon as her degree was finished. But what she thinks about, more than anything else, is Cobb. Cobb returning to Paris, Cobb pressing her into the sheets in her cramped apartment, subtle pianist’s hands tracing the lines of her hips and spine, finding the dips of her vertebrae and the sensitive skin at the backs of her knees. Cobb playing the piano for her in a dark café, as long as she asked him to.
She doesn’t want to forgive him for that knowledge, that memory of sound and low evening light that makes her whole frame lock with longing.
She loads her music library with delicate strains of jazz and blues, and forgives him anyway. He gave her dreams, after all.
Here's what I've been doing with my time instead. There will probably be more in the near future. All of them are for
inception_kink , but because it's me, they aren't particularly kinky.Title: In Pursuit of Mr. Charles
Rating: PG
Prompt: Cobb/Fischer. After the movie Robert becomes obsessed with the man in his dream and he actually manages to track Cobb down. Cue borderline obsessive stalking consisting of random phone calls, showing up at Cobb's house etc. Cobb is freaking out. The rest of the team finds it hilarious. Eventually Robert wins. ;)
It doesn’t take long. About three months of therapy followed by two-hour session with a sketch artist.
And then Robert Fischer Jr. has a name to go with a face.
Dominic Cobb. Not Charles at all, but somehow more suitable, more solid. And Robert hadn’t remembered the sharpness of his eyes.
Cobb doesn’t know this, of course. The first he hears of it is when he gets a call he almost doesn’t answer.
“Saito?”
“Cobb. Have you spoken to anyone from the job recently?”
Cobb looks out the window to the sight of Philippa and James chasing one another along the edges of the lawn, Philippa waving a stuffed elephant in the air. “Just you. Why?”
“There are whispers that someone is looking for you, in relation to it.”
Cobb could feel the muscles in his shoulders lock. “What sort of someone?”
“No authorities—you needn’t worry about that.” And something in Saito’s tone suggests that Cobb really doesn’t need to worry. It’s really very handy to have a friend like Saito. “But someone involved.”
“You’ve been in contact with the others?”
“Not yet. Shall I call them?”
“Please.” It isn’t that Cobb doesn’t want to talk to them, eventually. But three months isn’t long enough, and he needs a hell of a lot more distance before he feels like he can talk to any of them rationally.
He knew they understood. If they hadn’t, they’d have called him by now.
“Very well,” Saito replied. “I’ll let you know if anything else comes up.”
“Thank you.”
***
Two days later, he sees him and nearly has a heart attack. “Oh Jesus Christ.”
Miles raises an eyebrow after looking up from chopping tomatoes at the kitchen counter. Then he follows Dom’s gaze. “There’s a man staring at your house. Do you know him?”
“Somewhat,” Dom hedges.
The phone rings. Miles answers, and then almost immediately passes it to Dom.
Ariadne is mid-sentence. “—and I think you should talk to him, because we messed with his head and he just sounded so lost--“
“You talked to him?” Dom interrupted, blinking rapidly.
“Well of course. You were listed as one of my intership advisors. And he’s really sweet, you know. Not really a corporate type at all.”
“Ariadne, he’s standing across the street from my house.”
“Oh good!” And that really wasn’t the reaction Dom was looking for. “You should definitely talk to him, then.”
“He looks like a stalker. His suit is rumpled.”
“We stalked him first,” Ariadne reasons. “And he probably flew from London or something.”
Cobb hangs up, and immediately dials a different number. “Arthur—“
“Is this about Fischer?” Arthur cuts him off.
“He’s in front of my house!”
“That’s what you get for being his Mr. Charles,” Arthur retorts. “You’re his subconscious hero now. Deal with it.”
“What if he’s taken it too far? What if he’s—“
“Cobb.” Arthur’s clean-cut exasperation is clear as a bell down the line, despite the many hundreds of miles between them. “He’s not going to be like Mal. The idea we planted was to do with the past, not the present.”
Cobb shakes his head, but he looks out his window again and watches the confusion of emotions tracing their way across Fischer’s face. He hears Arthur sigh.
“Look, he probably just wants to know why you’re familiar to him. It’s probably safe to talk to him, so long as you don’t tell him about the inception.”
“He probably wants to shag you, mate!”
Cobb freezes. “Eames?”
“I’m trying to have a civilized conversation,” Arthur says, away from the receiver. “If you’d just—“
Cobb listens bemusedly to the sounds of a mostly suit-based scuffle, and then Eames is booming over the line. “You’re his bloody saviour. He probably wants you to pat him on the head and tell him he’s safe now. And if you’re lucky, he may also be inclined to suck your—“
“Eames!” Arthur reprimands, taking the phone back with several sounds of struggle and cufflinks clacking. And then, “Sorry. It’s probably not that, he probably just wants to talk to you.”
“Are you and Eames--?”
“None of your business, Cobb,” Arthur replies smoothly. “I’m hanging up now. If you ever feel like getting back in the game, you know who to call.”
The line goes dead. Cobb stares at the phone for a long moment.
Miles’ eyebrows are up around his receding hairline, which is damned impressive, really. “I’m guessing you’re not the only one who knows our friend outside?” he says eventually.
“Yeah,” Dom says slowly. “And they’re a lot less alarmed about it than I am.”
“Maybe they’re right.”
Dom pinches the bridge of his nose, and says eventually, “He’s probably cold out there. It’s November, and he’s not wearing a coat.”
“Why don’t you ask him in, then?”
Dom’s already at the door, slinging on a coat. He pulls it open, and strides out.
Fischer jumps like he’s been shot when the door slams. He watches with wide eyes as Cobb crosses the street.
“Hi there,” Dom says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Can I help you?”
Fischer guppies for a long second, and then says, “You’re…?”
“Dominic Cobb. And you’re Robert Fischer’s son. We met on a plane.”
A small fraction of Fischer’s expression clears, but the rest is a mad blur of caution and hope and desperation. “Yes. Yes, I suppose we did. You retrieved my passport.”
“Good memory,” Dom says, with a slight smile.
Fischer seems to waver for a moment, looking pathetically torn, before he impulsively grabs the sleeve of Dom’s coat. “I’m really very sorry,” he says in a rush, “But I keep seeing you. Not seeing you, seeing you, just…I keep remembering you. Your face. And I don’t understand why, but you’re just always there, and not in a threatening way, just the opposite in fact, and I don’t—“
“Mr. Fischer,” Dom cuts in, and he realizes with some amazement that the tightness in his shoulders has eased, and that he has no compunction about taking the hand on his sleeve gently away and then transferring his grip to the slighter man’s elbow. “It’s quite all right. You look cold. Would you like to come inside for a cup of tea?”
Fischer stares at him. And then exhales, his whole body slumping just slightly with what Dom surmises is a mixture of exhaustion and relief. “That sounds…pleasant,” he manages. “Thank you.”
Dom lets him press close as he leads the way back to the house. Fischer radiates heat like he’s incapable of keeping any for himself.
“Do you like kids?” he inquires, never taking his hand from Fischer’s elbow. “I have a son and daughter. I think they’ll like you.”
Title: Galvanized
Rating: PG
Prompt: Cobb/Fischer - steampunk dream (something equally science-fiction-y would work, too). Really I just want more Cobb/Fischer porn, so.
Fischer recognized him. Cobb hadn’t really been expecting that.
It was a risk he knew he had to take, but they’d been two layers down last time, and usually things like names and faces were the things to get buried under the rubble of waking first. So he’d thought it unlikely that this second round would be cause for concern.
Arthur had argued against it. Had argued about checking up on Fischer in general. Cobb ought to start listening to him more.
But he’d seen in the papers how violently Fischer had pulled his father’s empire apart, and the blows he’d taken from the board of directors. And Saito had said over the phone that Fischer had begun to look gaunt and tired.
Cobb didn’t want to be responsible for another Mal.
Ariadne had outdone herself this time around. He’d had asked for warmth and elevation, to make the atmosphere inviting but also full of quick exits, and she’d smiled, and delved into blueprints with renewed enthusiasm.
When they first entered into the dream, he raised an eyebrow.
“I’ve been reading a lot of Sherlock Holmes, lately,” she admitted.
Cobb didn’t mind. There was something to be said for 19th century fashion, though this was a landscape no 19th century traveler, not even the great detective himself, would have been comfortable with.
He looked out the window of the zeppelin, which drifted above iron city spires and austere brick architecture, steam and smoke rising from factory chimneys in vast plumes. The sun filtered golden through diaphanous clouds to illuminate Fischer’s projections, all of them in garb of Victorian splendor at the height of the Empire.
Fischer’s security was still in place as well, possibly stronger than ever. They were identical, and easy to spot in brass and leather gas masks and steam-powered arm modifications. Cobb was fairly sure they had rail guns instead of left hands, and clockwork for hearts. They’d be hard to kill, if there was trouble.
They hadn’t noticed the intrusion yet, however.
With Ariadne in tow, Cobb entered the ballroom at the center of the zeppelin’s belly, and caught sight of Fischer at the bar. He cut a slender figure in charcoal gray slacks and waistcoat, morning coat laid carefully over the bar, and the chain of a gold pocket watch looping from one buttonhole to the vest pocket. He carried with him a cane with a baroque brass knob, which was now resting against the barstool.
“Cobb?” Ariadne asked uncertainly.
He turned; he hadn’t realized he’d been staring. “Why don’t you mingle? I’ll talk to him,” he said.
She nodded, still looking unsure, and headed over to one of the empty tables.
Cobb made his way as unobtrusively as possible through the crowd. As soon as Fischer caught sight of him, however, he knew the game had changed.
Fischer…smiled. “Mr. Charles,” he said. “It’s good to see you.”
Cobb raised his eyebrows; he couldn’t help it. “I should think my presence would be more cause for alarm, given I am your head of security.”
“Is my security compromised?” Fischer inquired, his expression unreadable.
“Not presently,” Cobb replied, “Though we’re vigilant, as always.”
A small furrow appeared on Fischer’s brow. “You seem different from when I saw you last,” he commented.
Cobb blinked. “How long ago was that?”
“Three weeks ago, when the extractor from my father’s company tried to get to me. You don’t remember?”
“I’m a projection,” Cobb said slowly, trying to process what Fischer was implying. “I know whatever your subconscious wants me to know at any given time.”
Fischer seemed to consider this, and find it acceptable. He looked down at the bar. “I suppose I just want conversation, then. Funny, that I should want that in a dream.”
“Perhaps you haven’t gotten enough of it while you’re awake,” Cobb suggested.
Fischer’s smile was crooked and rueful. “I think you’ve hit the nail on the head with that one.”
And so they talked. Cobb regretted the time limit—he’d only planned for a few hours. Fischer was a good conversationalist; he began hesitantly, but slowly opened up about the progress he’d made with the dismantling of his father’s empire, and the anxiety he still harbored about his future. Cobb tried only to listen, but occasionally he found himself adding small comments that he knew were dangerously personal, though he tried to keep them vague.
Eventually they both paused. And then Fischer said quietly, “Sometimes I don’t think you’re a projection at all.”
Cobb tensed. Fischer continued, passing the knob of his cane between his hands, watching it swing back and forth with down-turned eyes. He tucked his chin down like he was trying to hide himself in the confines of his crisp high collar. “You look after me in a way I never look after myself. You’re…different.”
“I think you’ve just gotten stronger,” Cobb said eventually.
“Hm. I doubt it. This whole thing with the corporation…I’m getting really tired of being despised.”
“I can’t see anyone despising you,” he said, without thinking.
Fischer looked up sharply. And then he said, “You’re not a projection.”
Cobb felt his jaw go tight. Out of the corners of his eyes, he could see the other projections turning to look at them, the clockwork guards stepping forward. He put a hand in his pocket, fingers grazing the pulse bomb at his belt, feeling its brass contours and placing one finger on the activation switch. “Why do you say that?” he said carefully.
“If there’s one thing I know well about myself, it’s my level of self-respect,” Fischer said simply. “Yours is much higher. What are you doing here?”
Cobb saw Ariadne stand abruptly, one automaton’s rail gun arm trained on her. “Cobb?” she called.
“Let me explain,” Cobb said.
Fischer’s eyes darted to the clockwork guards, who had begun to advance, one of them grabbing Ariadne in a steel grip. She winced and struggled.
“Stop them,” Cobb said, grabbing Fischer’s arm. “We’re not here to harm you.”
Fischer looked at him, eyes wary, and eventually said, “I don’t know how. I was only ever taught defense, not control.”
Cobb closed his eyes for a moment. “Okay,” he said. “Then what I’m about to do isn’t an attack, it’s to give us more time, do you understand.”
“I don’t know why I’m trusting you,” Fischer murmured.
Cobb didn’t say anything. He hit the activation switch on the bomb, drew it out as it whined and charged, and then slammed it hard on the bar counter.
The blast sent them all reeling to the deck, projections and automatons alike. Cobb lunged for Fischer as it rippled out, shielding him as much as he could. Electricity sizzled as the clockwork guards blew gaskets and faltered, falling useless to the ground.
Cobb looked down at where he’d landed, and found Fischer staring up at him. The man felt lithe and bony beneath him, and oddly warm. Cobb swallowed.
“What’s your real name?” Fischer asked. He sounded out of breath.
“Cobb. Dominic Cobb,” Cobb said. He couldn’t look away. “You can call me Dom.”
“Cobb!” Ariadne shouted from across the room. “The zeppelin is crashing! We’re waking up in two minutes, max!”
At that point Cobb became aware of the unsteady tilt and creak of the floor, and of falling. He swore under his breath.
“We wake up when we die here, right?” Fischer asked suddenly, gripping Cobb’s shoulder.
Cobb nodded. The zeppelin shrieked as it began to plummet.
“And you’ll be there?” Fischer demanded.
Cobb nodded again.
Then Fischer seized him by the lapels and pulled.
The kiss was searing—sudden and hard, and Cobb opened under it out of sheer surprise. But then Fischer deepened it, and he followed all the way down. When the slighter man pulled back, he felt drugged.
“You’re going to explain all of this to me,” Fischer hissed, one hand deep in Cobb’s hair. “But after that, I want to know you. Not just my projection of you.”
Cobb took a breath to answer. And then the zeppelin groaned and cracked against one of Ariadne’s beautiful, massive spires.
And their world exploded.
***
Ariadne opened her eyes with a start, taking in the empty first class train car with a glance. Trees darted past the window.
Arthur was at her side instantly. “What happened?” he demanded. “You’re back ahead of schedule.”
“We all will be,” she answered, shaking herself to clear her head. “The zeppelin exploded.”
“Shit, we need to get out of here.”
“No, wait,” she held up a hand, and looked at the slowly waking forms of Fischer and Cobb.
“Fischer’s going to see us,” Arthur protested, “We need to go right now!”
Fischer opened his eyes almost at the same time as Cobb. Ariadne watched them both.
Fischer blinked, hard, and then sat up abruptly, ripping the IV from his arm. He gave Arthur and Ariadne a cursory glance, and then his focus came on hawklike as Cobb’s eyes focused.
“Dom?” he said, uncertainly, standing on shaky legs and then going to kneel in front of Cobb’s chair.
“’Dom’? Arthur echoed, incredulously. Ariadne elbowed him into silence.
Cobb looked at Fischer and took a breath. “The first time, you were a mark,” he said quietly. “This time, I just wanted to know that you were okay.”
Fischer shook his head. “That’s the worst explanation I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s going to have to be enough.”
Fischer looked down. Tentatively, Cobb sat forward and laid a hand on the nape of his neck. It was almost strange to feel the modern, crisp collar of an oxford and tie under his hand instead of the starched wingtips and layered cravat. “I meant what I said,” he said slowly. “I don’t think it’s possible to despise you.”
Fischer exhaled harshly.
Cobb said, “I’ll keep telling you until you agree.”
Ariadne, ignoring Arthur’s incredulous noises, smiled.
Title: The Importance of Proper Weaponry
Rating: PG
Prompt: Ariadne/Cobb. EHEM. SWORDS. SWORDS. SWORDS.
“What’s our profile, Arthur?” Cobb said, sitting back in his chair in the warehouse.
Arthur pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow. Then he perused his notes. “Gerard Underwood, CEO of High Dynamics. Harvard educated, graduated middle of his class not because his grades were low, but because he kept getting into trouble. Disciplinary hearings were like another class for him. It shows in how he does business as well. Word on the street is, he’s a sick fuck. And he’s highly trained in mind security. Overpopulated, too.”
Eames swore under his breath. Ariadne frowned. “What do you mean, overpopulated?”
“It means his dreams tend to be dense with projections,” Cobb said, looking at his hands. “It’s common among schizophrenics, but occasionally shows up in sociopaths, which is what our Mr. Underwood appears to be. It means we can’t go in there with guns because we’d run out of ammunition too fast and they get increasingly useless at short range.”
“What’s the alternative, then?”
Arthur smiled crookedly. “How’s your fencing arm?”
***
Ariadne decided on a proper rapier, in the end. She dreamed it up after reading too much Dumas so that when she arrived in Arthur’s dreamscape along with the others it felt comfortable in her hand, a heavy warm weight with an elegant bowl of a basket hilt thick with filigree. She thought it both appropriately tough and feminine. Eames smirked at it in approval. “Lovely, darling,” he drawled. “And does it come with the matching dagger?”
Ariadne smiled, and flashed the smaller blade in her opposite hand. Yes, she rather liked that part of this set up as well.
Eames was utterly predictable. A solid two-handed claymore that came up past his waist.
“Can you even lift that thing?” Arthur said dryly.
“Hasn’t failed me yet,” Eames replied. “Besides, who said I can’t dream it light and maneuverable, too?”
“It doesn’t always have to be bigger, you know.”
“Says you, mate.”
Arthur was predictable too. A thin katana was sheathed at his belt, the harness fitting perfectly beneath his waistcoat, not even wrinkling his trousers. Ariadne had no doubt in her mind that he knew how to use it.
Eames scoffed. “You’ve watched Kill Bill too many times.”
“You’re just jealous your sword can’t cut bone without shattering it to pieces. I prefer my fantastical violence clean.”
“Are you all ready yet?” Cobb interrupted, striding forward. Ariadne took a moment to stare.
She honestly hadn’t known what to expect from Cobb’s venture into more medieval weaponry. She’d always associated him with handguns, maybe pistols, rarely heavy artillery. But always modern. She had imagined a military saber from the 1940s or something. Hell, imagining what someone like Robert Fischer would bring in had been easier.
(Sword stick, without a doubt. Ariadne imagined him in one of his lovely corporate suits and an elegant black cane with a polished curved handle. She might have drawn some sketches.)
But Cobb hadn’t gone modern at all. Gripped loosely in one hand was a wickedly sharpened short sword with a wide, straight blade that it only took half a second for Ariadne to recognize.
The Roman Gladius. The sword that conquered the world.
And suddenly she got a flash of Cobb in her mind, in a different time and place, wearing the armor of a Roman legionnaire, clear eyes looking out past the horizon from beneath a golden helm, sword in hand, ever ready for battle.
She blinked, hard.
This was going to be a very distracting job.
Title: Sense Memory
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Ariadne/Cobb: He plays piano in a jazz band
I love for the man that he could be
I asked him if I let you would you play me
Then delighted as he tickled every key. –Jill Barber, Measures and Scales
Thinking back on it now, she’s not really sure she can forgive him for the visit he paid her in Paris. I asked him if I let you would you play me
Then delighted as he tickled every key. –Jill Barber, Measures and Scales
It was six months after the inception, and Ariadne returned to university with eyes opened. It was hard to adjust, to say the least. Often times she found herself drifting in class, and wasting precious time she should have been spending on her projects sketching impossible buildings that stretched in every direction, buildings that the sensible part of her brain (a part long dormant) told her were silly, but that she knew could be real…just not real, real.
Her tutors spoke in admiration of her vision, but clucked their tongues in disapproval at her lack of focus.
And then six months passed, and her phone rang with an unidentified caller ID.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Ariadne. Is this a bad time?”
Six months, and his voice was still jarringly familiar. She sat down heavily on her bed. “Cobb! How are you? How are your kids?”
He laughed quietly, “We’re all good. Things are good. I’m not actually with them at the moment, though. I’m in Paris.”
“Oh! Wow. That’s really great. We should catch up.” She could feel her voice being too clipped, too chirpy. She grimaced slightly.
“I’d like that,” he replied. “When are you free?”
They ended up getting coffee. Cobb was still working in dreams, though in a more legitimate sector of mindwork. “Psychotherapy,” he said, with an ironic smile. “I build safe places for disturbed minds to dream in.”
“That’s great,” Ariadne said, smiling more fully.
They talked about Paris, about Ariadne’s work at university, about James and Philippa. Ariadne found that she started counting the number of times Cobb smiled fully, with peace in his eyes even when they’re shadowed with lingering sadness. She asked after Arthur and Eames.
“Arthur is still a point man,” Cobb said, with a worry she found endearing. “Last I heard he was working in Budapest. Hopefully with someone who knows what he’s doing.”
And Eames?
“Who knows?” he rolled his eyes. “He always has something. I’m sure they’re both fine. They’re the best at what they do.”
Coffee turned into a lunch date the next day, after Cobb’s morning meeting with a client. Lunch became a long lunch, became a long wander through the streets and alleyways, followed by dinner. Dinner was in a tiny piano bar Ariadne had never known about despite it being in her neighborhood.
It’s not a performance night, but when the room was nearly empty, and they’re halfway through the second bottle of wine they’re sharing, she noticed that Cobb’s gaze kept sliding to the upright piano in the corner.
“Do you play?” she asked curiously.
He turned back to her and his smile was crooked this time. “I used to. Mal used to sing. I haven’t since she…” he trailed off.
Ariadne watched him. “They’re near closing. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”
There’s a flash of pain that dissipates, and then a small sparkle of something glimmered in his eye. He stood, and offered his hand.
She took it, and he lead her over to the piano where he settled on one side of the bench, leaving room for her to perch, facing away from the keys. He’s hesitant, but as soon as he started, his shoulders relaxed, his wrists supple and straight.
Ariadne closed her eyes. It’s soft, winding Parisian jazz, easy on the chromatics but willing to linger on the leading tones. Cobb’s touch was sensitive and soft, and she wondered how she never noticed the pads of his fingertips, rounded out beyond neatly cut nails from a lifetime of playing.
She could imagine Mal, leaning in effortless elegance like a panther over the piano, singing and smiling at her husband.
She tried not to imagine it, though. She watched Cobb instead, whose expression was relaxed and easy in concentration.
The music drifted, chords rolled beneath a simple melody. She looked between the shifting of the tendons beneath the skin of his hands, and his face, its arresting contrast of pale features and dark countenance, eyes too old for his years and yet still startling and handsome.
She realized with a sort of compressed ache expanding in her chest, that she desperately wanted to kiss him, and for him in turn to press his nose into her throat, breathe her in and say her name into her jaw line.
She felt herself swaying into his space.
The song ended. He pulled away from the keys and looked at her. Smiled with the affection of a father.
Ariadne felt her throat go tight. But she smiled back at him.
Two days later, Cobb is back in Los Angeles, his work in Paris finished. He leaves with Ariadne a list of reputable companies who would value her dream work and pay handsomely for it. “Your talents are wasted in the real world,” he says, and kisses her cheek. “Your work is beautiful out here, but it’s doubly so in there. Think about it.”
She does. And she’ll probably use that list as soon as her degree was finished. But what she thinks about, more than anything else, is Cobb. Cobb returning to Paris, Cobb pressing her into the sheets in her cramped apartment, subtle pianist’s hands tracing the lines of her hips and spine, finding the dips of her vertebrae and the sensitive skin at the backs of her knees. Cobb playing the piano for her in a dark café, as long as she asked him to.
She doesn’t want to forgive him for that knowledge, that memory of sound and low evening light that makes her whole frame lock with longing.
She loads her music library with delicate strains of jazz and blues, and forgives him anyway. He gave her dreams, after all.
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Date: 1 Aug 2010 17:58 (UTC)And although I'm really, really waiting for the next chapter of On the Wings of War, I'm very happy you are writing this lovely, lovely little fics.
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Date: 1 Aug 2010 18:27 (UTC)And yeah, I'm really going to try to finish the next chapter of On the Wings of War within the next couple of days. It's just being stubborn because my brain keeps being like, "Go refresh the meme! See what prompts are awesome DO IT NOW." It's very frustrating.
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Date: 3 Aug 2010 19:59 (UTC);_________________; bravissimo!!
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Date: 3 Aug 2010 20:50 (UTC)no subject
Date: 4 Aug 2010 13:10 (UTC)I loved the first one especially (they were all awesome!) but I can so picture Ficher out there like a lost puppy....
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Date: 4 Aug 2010 23:40 (UTC)no subject
Date: 10 Aug 2010 02:31 (UTC)no subject
Date: 10 Aug 2010 07:45 (UTC)In other words, I entirely agree, and tried to write it as simply being not the right connection for Cobb in that particular narrative. So if that didn't come through, then it's a result of my shoddy writing, and not any attitude on age gaps :)
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Date: 10 Aug 2010 15:17 (UTC)no subject
Date: 10 Aug 2010 20:39 (UTC)no subject
Date: 23 Aug 2010 18:28 (UTC)OH MAN THE FIRST ONE
I love fics where all the other characters are in the background.
But seriously, Fischer is so cute and I can so see that happening.
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Date: 23 Aug 2010 23:59 (UTC)no subject
Date: 5 Sep 2010 16:43 (UTC)I love them. Utterly. Both of them. The Arthur and Eames banter in the first is utterly funny, the swords really do match them, and the understated sadness Ariadne feels in the second when he makes it clear it's one-sided is something easy to empathise with.
Am I babbling? Long story short, I love them both, okay? :D
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Date: 5 Sep 2010 19:50 (UTC)no subject
Date: 6 Sep 2010 05:37 (UTC)no subject
Date: 19 Nov 2010 14:55 (UTC)no subject
Date: 19 Nov 2010 18:12 (UTC)no subject
Date: 4 Jan 2011 07:20 (UTC)no subject
Date: 4 Jan 2011 13:28 (UTC)