Fic: One Hundred and Six [Inception]
Title: One Hundred and Six
Pairing: Arthur/Cobb
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Disclaimer: It all belongs to Nolan
Notes: Written for a prompt over on the inception_kink meme: "I've died for you a hundred times."
All Arthur knows at the moment is that he is going to die.
The click of the hammer of the gun right next to his ear is loud, deafening, and fucking scary. To any casual observer, Arthur appears as calm as any individual taken hostage in front of his boss and friend can be, sharp tuxedo only slightly rumpled, jaw set firmly in displeasure, and eyes hard as they meet Cobb's.
Very few things can rumple the feathers of a man like Arthur and one might think that having a gun two inches away from one's face is a perfectly good reason to be just a little bit irked, even for those who wouldn't even blink while standing in the eye of a hurricane, but that's not the reason behind the fire in Arthur's gaze. He's not afraid of death, not anymore.
Why should he be? He's already died for Cobb at least a hundred times, if not more. Probably more. Arthur never stopped to keep count, because doing so was quite essentially a pointless task (not to mention morbid), given that death - or at least the temporary version of it - is just the passageway back to reality. Death in dreams doesn't mean the cessation of life in the real world; it's not like a bullet to the brain while buried beneath layers of the subconsciousness of others can deflate the lungs, terminate the firing of synapses, or stop the heart.
It's not like jumping off a building. (Arthur's only died this way once before, and Cobb didn't speak to him for a week afterwards. It brought up too many bad memories. And don't even get him started on the one on the shores of the Dead Sea.)
Pain, though - it rips through him mercilessly, and Arthur's not weak but he can't help the scream of agony that's torn from his throat because he had not been expecting that. Not from Mal, because she was lovely, right from the moment he first met her and understood why Cobb fell head over heels for this beautiful woman with an even more amazing mind. She's not lovely right now though, as she crosses over to the other side and prepares to kneecap him again, but of course she's not. Although Cobb's mind is brilliant, a Shade is never meant to be anything more than a ghost haunting the corners of the subconscious. His leg is going to hurt like a bitch even after he wakes up (phantom pains, can't do anything about them, and Arthur always smiles a bit grimly at the stupidness of it all, because of all things, dreams aren't supposed to hurt), but that's not what he's angry about either.
Right now, the only thing Arthur's angry about is the fact that it's him that Cobb is worrying over, that Cobb has that look of pain on his face because of Arthur (he knows all of Cobb's looks: the happy and the incensed, the sly and the clever; they're all filed neatly away in the compartments of Arthur's own mind, to be taken out and analyzed in the quiet and darkness of lonely hours), that Cobb has to pull the trigger yet again, and it's Arthur's fault. Cobb never likes having to kill those he works with, although he is scarily good at it. And Arthur hates that he's the one Cobb will be feeling guilty over later.
Cobb will never apologize though, no matter how guilty he feels, but that's alright, because Arthur never expects him to. He knows that Cobb won't ever apologize because he knows Cobb, knows him like he knows the loaded red dice in his pocket lands on only one number in the real world, while in dreams, it lands on whatever number it damn well pleases. But through the haze of grey beginning to cloud the corners of his vision, Arthur sees the wordless regret and guilt shining in Cobb's eyes, shining in Cobb's beautiful blue eyes, just before he's staring down the barrel of a gun and then sees nothing at all.
He doesn't need any apology. Arthur has died for Cobb (more than) a hundred times and for Cobb (and only for Cobb), he would gladly die a thousand more.
---------
One hundred and six.
That's how many times Arthur has died for him. Cobb has counted. He keeps a running tally in his head, and can recall the exact location, the exact dream, and whose fault it was for each distinct one hundred and six times Arthur has died.
Number seven was in a hall of mirrors. A rock, a shower of cracked reflections, and then a shorn jugular. Cobb didn't stop staring at Arthur's neck for weeks afterwards.
Number fifty-two was poetic. Somewhat. Cobb still remembers the wry, reassuring little crooked smile on Arthur's face before his fingers slipped off the ledge of the one-hundred and sixty floor building, of which they were on the roof. Cobb hates heights.
Number one hundred and one was a bad one, full of salt water and the sounds of Arthur's choking gasps. Stupid Dead Sea.
Number sixty-six was downright ugly. Cobb doesn't want to remember it at all (but he still has nightmares about it).
And those are only for how long they've been working together. Cobb came to know Arthur by an extremely fortuitous happenstance, and at that time, Arthur had already made quite a name for himself. He has no idea how many times Arthur has died in total. But he knows how many times Arthur has died for him.
As he pulls the trigger and watches his point man crumple to the floor, a round, neat hole in the middle of his forehead, eyes staring out emptily at nothing, Cobb merely charges on ahead, because there is a job to finish here.
But inwardly, he weeps: one hundred and seven.
Pairing: Arthur/Cobb
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Disclaimer: It all belongs to Nolan
Notes: Written for a prompt over on the inception_kink meme: "I've died for you a hundred times."
All Arthur knows at the moment is that he is going to die.
The click of the hammer of the gun right next to his ear is loud, deafening, and fucking scary. To any casual observer, Arthur appears as calm as any individual taken hostage in front of his boss and friend can be, sharp tuxedo only slightly rumpled, jaw set firmly in displeasure, and eyes hard as they meet Cobb's.
Very few things can rumple the feathers of a man like Arthur and one might think that having a gun two inches away from one's face is a perfectly good reason to be just a little bit irked, even for those who wouldn't even blink while standing in the eye of a hurricane, but that's not the reason behind the fire in Arthur's gaze. He's not afraid of death, not anymore.
Why should he be? He's already died for Cobb at least a hundred times, if not more. Probably more. Arthur never stopped to keep count, because doing so was quite essentially a pointless task (not to mention morbid), given that death - or at least the temporary version of it - is just the passageway back to reality. Death in dreams doesn't mean the cessation of life in the real world; it's not like a bullet to the brain while buried beneath layers of the subconsciousness of others can deflate the lungs, terminate the firing of synapses, or stop the heart.
It's not like jumping off a building. (Arthur's only died this way once before, and Cobb didn't speak to him for a week afterwards. It brought up too many bad memories. And don't even get him started on the one on the shores of the Dead Sea.)
Pain, though - it rips through him mercilessly, and Arthur's not weak but he can't help the scream of agony that's torn from his throat because he had not been expecting that. Not from Mal, because she was lovely, right from the moment he first met her and understood why Cobb fell head over heels for this beautiful woman with an even more amazing mind. She's not lovely right now though, as she crosses over to the other side and prepares to kneecap him again, but of course she's not. Although Cobb's mind is brilliant, a Shade is never meant to be anything more than a ghost haunting the corners of the subconscious. His leg is going to hurt like a bitch even after he wakes up (phantom pains, can't do anything about them, and Arthur always smiles a bit grimly at the stupidness of it all, because of all things, dreams aren't supposed to hurt), but that's not what he's angry about either.
Right now, the only thing Arthur's angry about is the fact that it's him that Cobb is worrying over, that Cobb has that look of pain on his face because of Arthur (he knows all of Cobb's looks: the happy and the incensed, the sly and the clever; they're all filed neatly away in the compartments of Arthur's own mind, to be taken out and analyzed in the quiet and darkness of lonely hours), that Cobb has to pull the trigger yet again, and it's Arthur's fault. Cobb never likes having to kill those he works with, although he is scarily good at it. And Arthur hates that he's the one Cobb will be feeling guilty over later.
Cobb will never apologize though, no matter how guilty he feels, but that's alright, because Arthur never expects him to. He knows that Cobb won't ever apologize because he knows Cobb, knows him like he knows the loaded red dice in his pocket lands on only one number in the real world, while in dreams, it lands on whatever number it damn well pleases. But through the haze of grey beginning to cloud the corners of his vision, Arthur sees the wordless regret and guilt shining in Cobb's eyes, shining in Cobb's beautiful blue eyes, just before he's staring down the barrel of a gun and then sees nothing at all.
He doesn't need any apology. Arthur has died for Cobb (more than) a hundred times and for Cobb (and only for Cobb), he would gladly die a thousand more.
---------
One hundred and six.
That's how many times Arthur has died for him. Cobb has counted. He keeps a running tally in his head, and can recall the exact location, the exact dream, and whose fault it was for each distinct one hundred and six times Arthur has died.
Number seven was in a hall of mirrors. A rock, a shower of cracked reflections, and then a shorn jugular. Cobb didn't stop staring at Arthur's neck for weeks afterwards.
Number fifty-two was poetic. Somewhat. Cobb still remembers the wry, reassuring little crooked smile on Arthur's face before his fingers slipped off the ledge of the one-hundred and sixty floor building, of which they were on the roof. Cobb hates heights.
Number one hundred and one was a bad one, full of salt water and the sounds of Arthur's choking gasps. Stupid Dead Sea.
Number sixty-six was downright ugly. Cobb doesn't want to remember it at all (but he still has nightmares about it).
And those are only for how long they've been working together. Cobb came to know Arthur by an extremely fortuitous happenstance, and at that time, Arthur had already made quite a name for himself. He has no idea how many times Arthur has died in total. But he knows how many times Arthur has died for him.
As he pulls the trigger and watches his point man crumple to the floor, a round, neat hole in the middle of his forehead, eyes staring out emptily at nothing, Cobb merely charges on ahead, because there is a job to finish here.
But inwardly, he weeps: one hundred and seven.