[FIC - Inception] The Helix Trap Chapter 6/19
When I was Googling for a "trendy Sydney restaurant" I came to this site which uses a pinwheel in its logo. And my face was like this:
D:
Fandom: Inception
Title: The Helix Trap
Chapter: 6/19 (7,600 words) (For other parts please check my my main post.
Rating: R
Pairings/Characters: Eames/Robert, Arthur/Ariadne, Cobb, Yusuf, Saito, Browning, and others.
Warnings: Violence, sexual content.
Disclaimer: These characters and setting do not belong to me and are being used without permission but for no profit
Summary: After the Inception proves successful, Eames tracks down Robert out of concern for its unusual side effects. Meanwhile, Arthur is hired to a dangerous job that forces the rest of the team to take sides: whether to defend Robert and his fragile mind, or ruin him completely.
Notes: C&C Welcome and appreciated. Thanks to my beta chypie for her input!
"You remember all this, don't you?"
Robert opened his eyes. A man was lying in front of him, white and red and cold beneath his bare hands. The hiss of wet breath was familiar and terrifying, and the ring of ragged flesh stomach-churning. When he tasted copper on his lips he was convinced it had come from the bloody maw before him.
"What?"
Icy fingers curled against his wrist, burning delicate skin and sinking into bone. The floor rocked beneath them.
"This room. This fortress...me. You remember everything."
"No, I..."
Robert swallowed hard. He remembered a dry smile in the rain. He remembered long fingers skating across his lapels. He remembered sheets of ice falling down his back, and metal clanging beneath his boots, but none of those things remained in his mind long enough to form something as concrete as a memory.
"I don't know..."
The man was dying. A dark stain was slithering up and down his body, stretching towards Robert, weighing on them both. He didn't want to watch the man die. He couldn't bear to see his chest cease rising, hear the last gasp of his spent life. Couldn't watch his eyes roll back and skin turn white.
Robert pulled the trigger. Two shots hit him in the chest, throwing him down, and then it was his turn to die on his back with a man leaning over him. Cold hands fumbled his shirt up, stinging the skin beneath and pressing lightning into his blood. He jerked, and a voice spoke close to his ear.
"Am I boring you?"
Robert glanced to his left. The man was still with him, elbow on the hotel bar, chin in palm. His smile had been used a few too many times and had worn out.
"I was telling you my story. I guess it wasn't to your liking."
Robert stared back at him, relieved to find him alive, though not sure why. He smiled against the lip of his glass.
"What is your story?"
His story was a room full of empty faces. Robert moved down the line of them, poking at their cheeks and foreheads. They stared back at him, unblinking, until one by one they stretched away from the wall, dragging long black veils with them. In a herd they drifted out the chamber door and into a long, musty hallway, like pilgrim ghosts. He followed them, every step a little shorter, every breath a little younger. His suit sagged on his shoulders until it felt as long and heavy as the veils covering his peers. By the time he had reached the tall oak door at the end of the hall he was half the size of the rest, enduring their fleeting caresses to his face and throat.
Through the door was his father's office. The desk towered over him like a monolith, and behind it Maurice Fischer himself hunched, carved from stone. He regarded his son with old, unseeing eyes.
Robert pressed his hands to the desk. He was crying, and lonely, and he missed her so much. And his father could say nothing.
He awoke in the master bedroom of his tower suite, tangled in his sheets again. Before doing anything else he pulled himself to the edge of the mattress and looked to the corner. A silver briefcase lay on the floor near the wall, but there was no one seated next to it.
So it wasn't all a dream. Robert drew his fingertips over the cool silver. Eames. His name is Eames.
Robert climbed out of bed and hurried into the main room of the suite. His heart skipped when he didn't see his security at the sofa as he'd ordered, and he all but leapt at the door to the second bedroom and threw it open.
Erhard, Marcus, and Eames were seated around what was supposed to have been a bedside table, set in the center of the room. All three looked up, and his two bodyguards winced guiltily, trying to hide their hands full of playing cards. Had there been money visible as well Robert would have fired them both on the spot, but they appeared to be betting with folded paper footballs.
"Good morning, Mr. Fischer," Eames greeted with a sheepish smile. He was still dressed in his suit from the night before, though his tie was loose and the first two buttons of his shirt were undone.
"Good morning." Robert rubbed his eyes. "Erhard?"
He jerked upright. "Sir?"
"Order breakfast. I don't care what it is as long as there's coffee. After that you're both excused for the day--I won't need you until our dinner appointment."
Robert resisted the temptation to glance at Eames. "For two. If you eat at the restaurant downstairs feel free to charge it to my room."
"Thank you, Mr. Fischer."
Robert left them, grabbing up his cell phone on the way to the bathroom. His assistant picked up just after the first ring. "Shelby, please cancel all my appointments for today," he told her. "Tell Peter I'm taking his advice and I plan on spending the day resting in my room."
"Right away. Is there anything I can get for you?"
"Not at the moment. Just...relax today. For once."
He could almost see her tight-lipped smile. "Right away, Mr. Fischer."
They hung up, and Robert locked himself into the bathroom. He started the water in the bathtub, but before he could get further he looked again to his phone, and was reminded of his conversation with Eames hours earlier. There is one way to know if his story's true. After a great deal of deliberation he looked up a number and dialed quickly before he could change his mind.
"Proclus Global," a woman answered
"Yes, hello." What time is it in Japan? The afternoon? Robert rubbed his face. "This is Robert Fischer, of Fischer Morrow. I know this is a bit unusual but I need to speak to Mr. Saito immediately."
She took a moment to reply. "Excuse me, but is he expecting your call, Sir?"
"No, but it's urgent."
Another brief pause. "I'm very sorry, but Mr. Saito is not available at this time," she said. "If I could get your--"
"Put him on the phone, now," Robert interrupted tersely, "or I'm going to buy Proclus Global and sell it to the Chinese."
"...One moment, Sir."
Robert paced back and forth, and finally settled on the edge of the tub just in time to shut off the water. "Answer the damn phone," he grumbled.
"How can I help you, Mr. Fischer?"
Finally. He closed his eyes, telling himself that he was talking business, as he always did. "Mr. Saito. Did you hire a man named Eames to spy on me?"
Saito hesitated as infuriatingly as his secretary. "I beg your pardon?"
"I'm not going to the authorities," Robert continued. "I don't care that you got your pipeline. I don't care about any of that, so just tell me the truth: did you hire a man named Eames to spy on me and my company?"
"Tell me where you heard such a rumor, and I will answer your question," Saito replied carefully.
His toes curled against the cold tile. "It doesn't matter where I heard it, I just need to know."
"If this 'Mr. Eames' is there with you, I'd like to speak to him."
"No--you're speaking to me," Robert snapped. "Now answer the god damned question!"
Saito made a quiet, uncomfortable sound at the back of his throat. "Yes. I did."
Robert let his breath out in a rush. He was telling the truth about that at least. "And is he still working for you?"
Saito's answer came much more quickly. "No. I don't know what he might have told you, but Mr. Eames has not been under my employ for several weeks. Nor is he likely to be again."
"I see." Though Robert should have been infuriated, he had suffered worse from his rivals in the past, and he could not work up the indignation. He was much more interested in the reassurance he'd received: that at least part of Eames's story checked out. "If I ever find out that you've been interfering with my company again, I will run Proclus Global into the ground. Do you understand?"
"Very well," Saito said coolly. "Will that be all?"
"Yes. Good day, Mr. Saito."
Robert hung up, stripped, and sank into the steaming bathtub. The heat was blissful, and it was not until he was submerged up to his shoulders that he realized he had been clinging to the winter cold from his dream. He rubbed his chest, trying to erase the icy fingers. Eames. He said something is wrong with me. The thought made him shiver, and he drew the bath water over his face, trying to make it relax him. But you can't decide that from seeing one nightmare, can you? I've had dreams like that my entire life. He doesn't know anything about me.
Robert rose out of the tub only long enough to retrieve the soap, but rather than use it he kneaded it between his fingers and watched it dissipate across the water's surface. There was something ominous about how easily bits of soap sloughed off and soon became transparent.
Maybe there is something wrong with me, he thought, letting the bar sink to the bottom. When was the last time I felt like myself? He scoffed. Years, if ever. Maybe he knows something. He glanced to the door. Maybe...I can trust him.
Robert finished in the bathroom, and wrapped himself in a robe before exiting it. By then Erhard and Marcus had left, and Eames was plugging a cell phone charger into the wall. He glanced up. "Do you mind?"
"Planning on making a call?" Robert asked on his way to the bedroom.
"Not particularly." Eames turned his back discreetly and sat down at the table. "But that's not all phones do these days, is it?"
"I suppose not." Robert rifled through his wardrobe for a suit, and was halfway in it when he changed his mind and dressed in a gray one instead. "So what are you planning on doing with it?"
"I have a few tricks on it that I thought might help us."
Robert stopped in the middle of knotting his tie. "Help us," he repeated. He abandoned the tie on the bed and padded on bare feet up behind Eames's chair. "You said that before. What makes you think I need your help?"
Eames tipped his head back slightly, but he did not turn or try to see him. "If you don't want me here, I'll leave."
"No," Robert said quickly. There was a knock at the door, and he moved swiftly to answer. "No--you're not leaving until I say so, I mean that."
He opened the door, and stood back as a pair of bellboys wheeled in their breakfast. They smiled politely as they set the table and poured his coffee, but he had little patience for their niceties, and was quick to hand off tips and send them on their way. "Help yourself," he told Eames as he sat down across from him.
Eames hesitated. "As if I haven't taken advantage of your generosity enough?"
"It's just breakfast." He sipped his coffee, more eager for the caffeine than his stomach was. "And it's here so you might as well eat it."
"Well in that case..."
Eames pulled a napkin into his lap and began to eat, as voraciously as he could manage while still observing his manners. Robert shook his head, and was surprised when his stomach lurched as if in envy. It wasn't until he followed suit and swallowed a mouthful of fresh bread that he realized he was starving. He began to eat almost as eagerly as his guest, for the first time in what felt like weeks actually tasting his expensive breakfast.
"It's been a long time since I ate breakfast with someone," he recalled. "And the first time I've shared it with an agent of dream espionage."
Eames smirked as he gulped down a bite of sausage. "So you confirmed my story with Mr. Saito?"
Robert frowned. "You overheard me?"
"No. But I assumed you would." He poured a generous amount of creamer into his coffee. "I'm thinking I'd better not go to Japan for a while."
"He didn't sound happy with you. But I wouldn't be either, if I hired you only to find out you were giving sympathy to my enemy." Robert watched Eames closely. "If that's what you would call this."
Eames continued to eat, but he kept his full attention on his host. "I'm not sure what to call it myself," he admitted. "It's very unprofessional for a con like me to take a personal interest in a subject."
Personal interest. Robert shifted uncomfortably. "Are you saying I should be 'flattered' by your mind-invading?"
"All right--that may have been uncalled for," Eames said. "But my intentions were mostly good, and what I learned is important."
"Mostly good." Might as well get down to business. Robert sipped his coffee. "You mean, the fact that I've had subconscious training I didn't know about?" he asked. "Are you really certain about that?"
"Yes." Eames shrugged out of his suit jacket and tossed it onto a nearby chair. "I've been doing this for years," he said, sounding excited, "and I've never seen an untrained subject respond to a subconscious threat as quickly and with as much lucidity as you did last night. How did you know about Mr. Charles?"
"You mean, the man that shot you?" The memory raised the small hairs on the back of his neck, and when Robert tried to answer he quickly realized that he couldn't. "I don't know. The moment I saw him I knew who he was. Did you..." He narrowed his eyes at Eames. "Did you put him there?"
Eames shook his head. "No, but I think I know who did." He took another few quick bites of food. "I know some of the best extractors in the business, and I have a pretty strong hunch that one of them was the one that trained you. But in order to know for sure...I'd have to get a peek at your father's and Peter Browning's bank accounts."
At first Robert's heart sank in bitter disappointment, but when he took another look at Eames's focused eyes, he caught on. "You want to know if they paid money to an extractor without telling me? But how would you be able to tell?"
"Courtesy numbers," he explained. "As in, professional courtesy. You see, extractors like dream business because it's relatively tidy--it's easier for us to do what we do when the only casualties are in the brain. But when a subject has been trained, and an extractor goes in without knowing that, chances are good that everyone wakes up ahead of schedule and that's when things go wrong."
"So you warn each other." Robert surrendered a dull laugh. "You charge money to train people like me against extraction, and then render it useless by letting all your friends know that you've done it."
"No no, you still get your money's worth. It's just a heads up so that the extractors know what they're up against, to keep people from being hurt." A shadow passed over his face but Robert didn't bother questioning. "Anyway, we do this by charging specific amounts for our services, so that when someone does a background check on their subject, it gets flagged as a 'courtesy number.' Not every extractor does it, but the one I have in mind does, and I know exactly what to look for."
Robert sighed, and only his eager stomach kept him eating. "Even if I trusted you enough to just hand over account numbers, my father's money is still wrapped up in red tape miles long, you must know that. I can't search through millions of transactions for this friend of yours."
Eames wiped his mouth with his napkin and twisted around to retrieve his phone. "You said your father suggested training to you at one point. If you can remember when that was, we can narrow the search."
Something cold slithered through his gut and removed the rest of his appetite. He pushed his plate away. "I remember when it was."
Eames tapped on the screen of his phone a few times and then handed it to Robert. "Here--the numbers you're looking for. If your father sent a payment of one of those sizes around the time he mentioned it to you, chances are good you've had some of the best training money can buy."
Robert accepted the phone and glanced over the numbers. Would Father have done this? He fidgeted in his chair again, and at long last picked up his own phone. It was almost three years ago when he brought it up. I don't even remember what started it, except that it was a fight. Everything was a fight back then. He called Shelby, apologized for going back on his word, and relayed Eames's request, numbers, and the dates to her. "It will take a while," he told Eames after hanging up. "She's going to call back."
"Good." Eames finished his breakfast and faced Robert seriously. "Thank you, for trusting me enough to go through with this. I know it's not easy for you."
"I just want to know the truth," Robert said, pushing their plates onto the cart. "And seeing as you're the only one offering any, I might as well hear you out. You’ve been right about a few things, after all."
"You mean, about your dreams affecting you," Eames prodded. "Ever since your father's death."
"Yes." Robert took in a deep breath. "I can't say I've ever been a restful sleeper anyway, but the dreams, it's as if they've become..." He gestured vaguely with his hands. "More vivid. I used to not remember much when I woke up, but now I do. Unfortunately."
"Are they all the same?"
"No, not entirely. But I'm usually running...away from something, or chasing something." He shrugged. "Typical for most people, right?"
"Fairly. If the dreams aren't recurring we might as well start with last night's." Eames leaned forward against the table. "What can you tell me about the pinwheels?"
Robert frowned. "Pinwheels?"
"They were all over your dream," Eames said, watching him as if waiting for something to happen. "Did you not see them?"
I was watching you. He glanced away uncomfortably. "No. I didn't notice anything like that."
Eames hummed thoughtfully. "Do you know where they might have come from?"
Robert did not need long to consider, but it did take time for him to decide to share his conclusion. He opened his wallet and pulled out a folded photograph. "This, maybe," he said, passing it to him.
Eames accepted and looked it over. There was no surprise in his face, only a distant, almost weary nostalgia that reminded Robert of when he had shared the story about his own father the night before. "Is this an important memory for you?" he asked.
"Yes. Well, sort of." Robert took it back, staring pensively at the image of his father in his younger years. "I don't remember the day all that well. But my mother used to keep this photograph with her, so now...I do."
Eames was quiet a moment--how he knew that it was needed, Robert did not know, but he was grateful. It wasn't until Robert slipped the photograph back into his wallet that he continued. "Do your dreams often take from your memory?" he asked. "Such as recreating specific events?"
"I'm not sure. Yes, I suppose." Robert shook his head abruptly. "This is strange," he declared.
"Not everyone is prepared to take dream talk seriously," Eames admitted.
"It's not that, it's..." He hesitated to continue, feeling more embarrassed and out of place by the moment. "I'm not used to talking about myself."
"Ahh." Eames smiled sympathetically. "It's hard to find people that really care in your world, eh?"
Robert shook his finger at him. "No--don’t do that."
"Hm?"
"Don't try to goad me into any 'poor me, rich boy' nonsense," he said, pushing to his feet. "Because that's not what I meant and that's not who I am."
Eames leaned back and watched him. "That's not what I meant, either."
"Because it's not even about that," Robert continued. He suddenly began to pace in restless agitation. "I don't need anyone's sympathy. I've never asked for that, and especially not from strangers."
"You don't have to explain yourself to me."
"I'm not!" He fingered the front of his jacket. "I don't owe you that, either," he muttered. Something trembled in his chest and he wasn't sure why--when he looked to Eames and found him still watching so intently it made him nervous. "I'm just saying, I'm not used to talking about myself. What is there to say anyway? You're the one that's done all manner of research on me, right? And what good has it done? It hasn't, because you still had to break into my mind and you still don't know what's wrong with me, do you?"
Eames frowned at him. "You admit something's wrong."
"No, I'm...I'm not saying that," Robert stammered, running his hand through his hair. But I am. I'm rambling. His gaze darted to where the mirror had once been, now replaced with a painting of a rustic village landscape. There was a smear in the corner that reminded him of himself. "I'm saying...I'm not this person you seem to think I am. I'm not just some rich asshole with a dead family, I'm not..." He yanked at his jacket. "I'm not this goddamn suit!"
He fumbled with his suit buttons. This is when Peter grabs me by the arm, he thought as he tossed the jacket aside, not caring where it landed. And tells me to calm down, because I'm not acting like myself. I'm not who I'm supposed to...
He looked to his guest again. Eames had not moved from his chair and was still watching him, focused and serious without the gleam of pity he had grown used to seeing from others. He waited, breathless and a little frightened, for words of admonishment or a raised eyebrow. Eames offered neither, only silent patience. Gradually Robert's breath softened, and he wiped cold sweat from his forehead.
"What's happening to me?" he asked quietly.
Eames stood, and gently guided him to sit back down. "You're fine," he assured, squeezing his shoulder. "I understand what you're saying. You just want someone to listen."
Robert relaxed in his chair with a long sigh. "Maybe," he mumbled, feeling the truth in Eames's words sink into him. "It used to be Peter. When no one else cared, Uncle Peter was always there as an ear, but now..." He leaned back to better feel the hand at his shoulder. "Everything's changed. It started when Father got sick, and now that's he's gone, every time Peter looks at me it's with this face that says he's..."
The word halted in his throat, but Eames provided it for him: "Disappointed."
"...Yes." Robert lowered his head. "Just like my father."
Eames gave him another squeeze, and he sighed again, embarrassed by how comforting just that gentle gesture was. "You're right," he surrendered. "Everything feels so wrong now, but no one wants to hear it."
"I'm listening." Eames gave him a pat, and to Robert's disappointment, stepped away. "I know what it's like when you're struggling with something, and you don't feel as if anyone understands, because you don't understand it yourself. I didn't want you to feel that way."
Robert turned, watching him move to the bedroom and retrieve his PASIV case. The way Eames looked at the device as he righted himself gave him away. "Are you talking about your dreams?" Robert asked.
Eames smiled dryly. "Actually, yes. It took me a long time to learn my craft, and last night you saw right through me." He placed the PASIV on the bed and after checking over its contents, he closed it up. "It was very unnerving."
"Well." Robert folded his arms, unnerved himself. "I'm not apologizing."
His phone rang, bleating out a simple melody that he'd assigned to Shelby's number. His heart skipped and he quickly put it on speaker. "Yes?"
"Mr. Fischer? I think I've found what you're looking for," she said crisply. "It took a few phone calls, but there was a payment of $81,939.02 American sent from your father's personal account on the date of August 14th in the year you specified."
Eames stepped down from the bedroom. "Were there any notes? Any indication of what it was for?" he asked.
"Er, no, Sir. There's no record that I was able to find. Will that be all, Mr. Fischer?"
"Yes," Robert said distractedly. "Thank you, Shelby. You can take the rest of the day off now."
"Thank you, Mr. Fischer."
Robert hung up, and his heart sank all over again. "So it's true."
"Yes, I'm sure of it now." Eames snorted incredulously. "That sly bastard. That's the last time I trust him with my back, that's for certain."
Father hired someone to go into my brain. Robert stared straight ahead. A sudden pain throbbed between his temples, and he grimaced. Behind my back. He knew I didn't want that and he did it without telling me. He didn't trust me.
"Robert?" Eames was beside him before he was aware he'd moved. "Are you all right?"
His phone blurred into a black smudge in front of him, like a little tree in a village portrait. He shook his head. "I'm fine," he muttered. "A little dizzy..."
Warm fingers touched his face, startling him into lifting his head. His vision smeared and though he could tell it was Eames standing over him, he could not make him out entirely. "Like at the airport?" Eames asked urgently.
"What...?" Robert urged Eames's hand away and rubbed his eyes. "I'm just tired. It's so much to take in--I didn't sleep well--"
He stood up, thinking that he would move to the balcony and get a breath of fresh air, but with the first step his knees wobbled beneath him. Eames caught him just as he started to fall. "It is like before," Eames murmured, shifting as if deliberating. Before Robert could begin to get his footing again, an arm hooked around his stomach, and he found himself being hoisted up onto Eames's shoulder.
"Hey!" Robert struggled, but he was still dizzy, and when Eames turned suddenly he could not help but cling to his shoulders and back. "What the hell are you doing?" A few steps later they were in the bedroom, and he yelped ungracefully as he was heaved onto the king sized mattress. "Eames--"
"There's something going on in your mind right now," Eames said, opening the PASIV back up. "And I want to know what it is."
"What do you mean?" Robert started to sit up, but the room spun, and his temples pounded until he relaxed on his back again. "What is going on?"
Eames crawled onto the bed and slid one of the needles into his arm. "I've seen you make that face a few times now," he explained. "And I don't think it's just stress. I think it's some kind of symptom of your subconscious mind."
Is this really happening? Robert unbuttoned his cuff--he was caught up in Eames's urgency, and when he looked up, he saw honest concern mixed with the excitement in Eames's face. Has anyone ever looked at me like that? He offered up his arm, and warm fingers trailed down the inside of his wrist. His pulse stammered beneath them. This is important to him. He swallowed hard. "What should I do?"
"Just relax," Eames said. "Clear your mind, and let it go wherever it takes you." He taped the needle down and faced Robert with a reassuring smile. "Don't make that face--you're fine. I'll be nearby."
"Okay." Robert took in a deep breath and let it out. "I'm ready."
Eames nudged the PASIV between them and stretched out on his back. "Here we go," he whispered, and the device made a quiet hiss.
"What do you know about extraction?"
Robert glanced up. His father was seated across the table from him, vigorously carving his lamb. If you need to work so hard to cut it, you should just send it back, he thought with an irritated frown. "Extracting what?"
"Thoughts. Secrets." Maurice took a bite and chewed for what seemed like full minutes. "Memories."
"You mean dreamshare?" Robert poked with ill interest at his oysters. Who orders lamb at a seafood restaurant? "What about it?"
"What do you know about it?"
"I know what it is. That's about it." He stared at the candle flames dancing on prim white tablecloths, stared at the ripple of the bay beyond the cold glass windows, stared at the harp-string figure of the Anzac bridge looming in the distance--anything to keep from looking at his father. If he looked at him for too long, if he stayed too invested in the conversation, it would end up being another fight. "So?"
"There are extractors now that offer to train people like us to defend against it."
He laughed bitterly. "That's ridiculous." When his father did not respond he had little choice but to make eye contact again, and the seriousness he was met with made his stomach churn. He plucked the spinning decoration out of his wine glass so he could take a long drink. "Don't tell me you're going to pay for a scam like that," he scoffed.
"I am." Maurice leaned back, but as he did a shimmer lingered where he had once been, like an afterimage of streaking car lights. "And so are you."
Robert tensed defensively. "No I'm not."
"It's just another level of security," Maurice continued. "You and I both have sensitive information regarding the company, and--"
"And that's what bodyguards are for," Robert interrupted. "I am not paying someone to mess with my brain. It's ludicrous."
Maurice shook his head. "That's what I thought too, when Peter first mentioned it to me. But now I wonder." He wiped his mouth with his napkin, and when he continued, his voice crackled before settling into a tone of concern. "You and I are valuable men, Robert. We have enemies. And we--"
"They're your enemies." Robert's hands clenched to fists against the table. He was sick of the old arguments, and the dull look that overtook his father's eyes when they had them. "It's your company, as you've had to remind me a few times just tonight."
"People are going to try to hurt you," Maurice insisted. "Not just because of me, but because of decisions you've made as well. You were the one that pushed to bankrupt Wisermen, weren't you?"
Robert rolled his eyes. "What would have been the point of settling? It was the right decision--even Uncle Peter agreed."
A shadow fell over Maurice's face. His eyes darted back and forth, and emotions conflicted in the twitches around his mouth. It did not occur to Robert to find it strange. "You spend more time with Peter these days," he said quietly.
"Peter doesn't invite me to dinner and then ambush me," Robert snapped. "I am not allowing some kind of mind hacker anywhere near me, I mean it." The thought alone felt like ice in his veins, stinging and ominous. "Just finish your dinner so we can go home." He gulped down the rest of his wine.
Maurice's shoulders trembled. "Don't speak to me that way."
"How should I speak to you?" Robert took his napkin out of his lap and tossed it on the table. "Should I call you 'Dad'? Should I just say 'yes' to your every asinine request? Sorry I'm not a good enough son for you."
"Stop it," Maurice hissed. "I'm only trying to protect you. I don't want you to be hurt because of me."
"You just said it was my own fault--which is it? No, never mind." Robert pushed away from the table. "I don't care which it is. I'm not listening to this anymore."
The patrons in the seats closest to them looked up. Robert was glad for their confused stares, triumphant, even, but his mood deflated when he saw the disappointment with which is father was watching him. "I'm leaving," he said, without the force he'd intended.
"Please just consider it," Maurice replied.
His response was calm, without innuendo or condescension, and though Robert sensed true sincerity the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. "This isn't about me," he told his father coldly. "You're just afraid that I'm too weak to take care of myself, and that it'll cost the company, aren't you? You don't give a damn what happens to me."
"That isn't true."
"Yes it is!" Robert regretted each word as he spoke them, but they came out anyway. "You care more about the god damn company than your own family!"
Maurice pounded his fist on the table, rattling dishes and silencing the rest of the dining room. "I told you not to speak to me that way!"
Robert started, but as soon as he regained his composure he scowled and marched away from the table. He felt his lips move but no sound came out. With the curiosity of a roomful of Sydney elite on his back he did not stop until he reached the exit. Unable to prevent himself, he looked back.
Maurice stood next to the table. His face was a smear in the dull, candle-lit room, but Robert did not have to see him properly to know the pain etched into his expression. Everything he had said was true. His son was a fool not to see it.
Robert escaped from the restaurant and breathed in cool night air. Guilt strangled his chest and stung the back of his throat as he let the memories of that night overflow him. For long moments he stood on the curb, eyes pressed shut, forcing the ache between his temples to recede.
He wiped his mouth. "Eames...?"
A man stepped out of the evening crowd and moved to his side. "I'm here."
Robert didn't recognize the voice, but by the time he turned he found that it was indeed Eames standing next to him, dressed in the same suit he had been wearing while they were awake. "Did you see all that?" he asked.
"Yes, all of it." Eames watched him closely, but gave him another minute to catch his breath before speaking again. "That was one of your memories?"
"Yes..." Robert at last calmed, and he sighed. "I was such a fool," he murmured, voice rough with regret. "He really was trying to protect me. I saw it, I did, but I was just so...so angry, and selfish." He rubbed his weary eyes. "I wasn't ready to believe that he really cared about me. If only I'd...."
Eames remained quiet, but his hand strayed from his side. Robert took it, and when he squeezed he could have sworn it was more real than the people moving about them, than the dull glow of sunset beyond the bridge. It gave him the encouragement needed to go on. "He really did love me, you know," he said. "In his own way."
Eames's fingers twitched. "Robert. Tell me about when your mother died."
"What?" The change of subjects caught him off guard, as did the almost unblinking scrutiny of his comrade. "What do you mean?"
"You were eleven years old," Eames prompted. "You went to him in your grief. What did he say to you?"
Robert frowned. He remembered the feeling of the old oak desk beneath his hands. He remembered his father's dull, unseeing eyes. "He didn't say anything," he recalled. The memory spread more pangs of indescribable shame through him. "He was in so much pain then, but he was never good with emotion. He didn't know how to console himself, let alone me. I wish...I wish I had been older, so I could have better understood how much he needed me."
He sighed deeply in regret. "Not that it would make much difference. Look what I just did in there. No wonder he was so goddamned disappointed! He was trying to be a real father to me, and I..."
Eames's hand slid across his chest, and he jumped. When he looked down, he saw that it was to pluck the folded handkerchief out of his breast pocket--except that it wasn't just a fashionable triangle anymore. It had somehow folded itself into a pointed pinwheel.
Robert glanced between it and Eames's furrowed brow, not understanding the significance. "What's the matter?"
Eames held the object delicately as if afraid it might shatter. His fingers, still entwined with Robert's, grew clammy. "Your father loved you," he said quietly. "That's what this means."
"What?" Robert's heart skipped. "What do you mean?"
"It represents your innermost desire," Eames continued, still staring at the pinwheel as if in a trance. "Your subconscious is obsessed with it." He licked his lips. "You're desperate to believe that your father loved you, against all opposition. Even from your own memories."
All around them men and women turned to stare with cold and threatening eyes. "What are you talking about?" Robert demanded. He grew tense and his eyes narrowed. "My father did care about me. He just didn't--"
"That story you just told me--it's the third time I've heard it." Eames nodded to his hand, where the cloth pinwheel was turning slowly on his open palm. "And it's different every time. Last time, you told me he spoke to you."
Sweat formed on Robert's forehead. He tried to remember, but no matter how many times he recalled his father in the office, he heard nothing. "No he didn't."
"He told you, 'There's really nothing to be said.'"
Eames curled his fingers, and the sight of them distorting the carefully shaped fabric made Robert go pale. He grabbed Eames's wrist and pried his hand open. "I don't know what you're talking about--that's not what happened."
The projections began to crowd in closer, whispering to each other. Though Robert managed to pull the pinwheel from Eames's grasp it was already limp and misshapen, and he felt inexplicably sick. "Why are you lying to me?" he gasped out. "I know what I remember." He looked around them, and when he realized that the throngs were watching him panic simmered across his skin. "Wake me up."
"I can't," Eames said. "But there was barely any Somnacin left when we started. It should run out soon."
"Wake me up," Robert demanded again, and when Eames only shook his head, he grabbed the front of his suit angrily. "Why are they staring at me? You're the one doing this! You're the one that's lying!"
Eames sighed. "I don't know what happened in this restaurant, but it wasn't what we just saw. You're trying to make yourself believe something that isn't true."
"But I remember!" Robert trembled, and when he looked again to the hissing projections their faces grew cold and plastic. Their hair blackened and stretched, weaving into lace and satin veils. "Wake me up--I've had enough." He drew closer to Eames. "Please wake me up."
Eames took him by the shoulders. "It's all right--it's not you they're mad at."
A hand touched Robert's back, and he jumped, holding his breath. The wraiths pawed at him, their fingers leaving cold trails against his clothing and skin. "Yes it is," he whispered, trying to lean away from them by leaning into Eames. "It is me."
The world started to spin. Robert closed his eyes, concentrating on Eames's arms around him to block out the icy fingernails scratching at his back. He could feel the projections shifting and crowding all around, and when they tried to pull him away from Eames he resisted, his jaw clenching.
"It's wearing off," Eames assured him, his voice a low rumble in his ear. "Just stay still..."
Robert gasped sharply and opened his eyes. He was lying in bed once more, a soft mattress at his back rather than swaying ghosts. His throat stung when he swallowed, and his fingers ached, wrapped tightly around a broader, warmer hand.
He glanced to his right. Eames was there, staring at the ceiling in distant contemplation. They looked at each other, letting their breath even out until the dream had faded completely from all five senses. For short moments the room was silent as Robert tried to come to terms with the unsettling truth unleashed from his dreams.
I can't trust my memory. Robert leaned closer until their shoulders touched. Eames's acceptance was only a faint shift on the mattress, but it was more welcoming and more intimate than anything Robert had felt in a long time. I'm coming apart and the only one who cares is a stranger. He sighed, taking solace in the warmth of another body alongside his. Maybe it's fitting that way.
There was a knock on the door. Eames glanced to it and back to Robert. "I'll get it," he offered. He let go of Robert's hand so he could remove the PASIV needles from them both. "Relax."
Robert rubbed his arm as Eames climbed off the bed and moved away. He had not come close to deciding what to do next when the door opened, and a very familiar and very irate voice boomed through.
"You!" Browning shoved his way into the suite. "What the hell are you doing here?"
God damn it. Robert rolled to the edge of the mattress.
"Ahh, Mr. Browning," Eames greeted. "A pleasure to see you again."
"Did you not get it the first time, kid?" Browning sneered. "I told you..." He glanced away just in time to see Robert standing up from the bed, and his face turned red. "Jesus, Robert..."
Robert rubbed his eyes as he approached. "Peter, it's not what it looks like."
"Didn't I warn you about him?" Peter insisted angrily. He poked Eames hard in the chest. "This man is a con! There is no Fred Simmonds!"
"I know who he is," Robert said.
"When Shelby said you were taking the day off I didn't think it was for this." Browning turned on Eames again. "And you! I knew you had balls but you're a damn fool if you really think you can sleep your way into this company!"
Eames held his hands up. "You're right about one of those, at least."
Browning growled, and grabbed Eames by the front of his shirt. "You son of a--"
"Peter!" Robert quickly stepped between them and pushed Browning back. "Stop it," he said firmly. "I know what I'm doing."
Browning stepped back, flushed and scowling. "So do I." He turned to march from the room. "I'm calling security."
"Wait, Peter--" Robert tried to grab for him but he was already in the hall and moving swiftly. He turned to Eames. "You'd better--"
"On my way," Eames chirped as he retreated to the bedroom and started gathering his things. "That was an unfortunate misunderstanding, now wasn't it?"
Robert rubbed his face. "To be fair, the last time he caught me, he wasn't wrong," he grumbled.
Eames glanced to Robert with raised eyebrows. Smirking, he closed the PASIV into his larger briefcase. "That wasn't in the research."
Robert picked up Eames's discarded jacket, and they met each other at the open door. "Eames..." He shifted anxiously as he watched Eames finish dressing. "We're leaving Munich tomorrow," he said carefully, "to spend a week in New York. After that we're going to back Los Angeles. Will you meet me there?"
He straightened. "I can manage, if that's what you want."
"It is." Robert stepped forward, and pressed his hand to Eames's chest, stilling him. "I'll still need your help if I'm going to figure out what's going on in my mind. And after what I saw in your mind last night..." He met Eames's eyes seriously. "I think you might need my help, too."
Eames smiled, though there was uncertainty hidden behind his easy expression that betrayed him. "Then I'll see you in Los Angeles." He covered Robert's hand, giving it a light squeeze that seeped unexpected warmth into his skin. "Take care of yourself until then," he said. "And don't let Browning take you to Dr. Banks."
"I'll watch my back," Robert replied. "I've been doing it this long." He swallowed hard and retrieved his hand. "You'd better not back out on me, Eames."
"I won't." Eames thumped him on the shoulder and headed out. "Wouldn't want Browning to think he had me beat."
He hurried down the hall and ducked into the stairwell just as the elevator jingled its arrival. Erhard and Marcus stepped out, goaded on by a still red-faced Browning. With a sigh Robert retreated into the room, taking what little time he had to prepare for another onslaught of accusations.
Peter doesn't understand. Eames might not either, but he's the closest I have. He poured himself another cup of coffee and sat down just as Browning entered. And he'll be back. He has to come back.
To Chapter 7
D:
Fandom: Inception
Title: The Helix Trap
Chapter: 6/19 (7,600 words) (For other parts please check my my main post.
Rating: R
Pairings/Characters: Eames/Robert, Arthur/Ariadne, Cobb, Yusuf, Saito, Browning, and others.
Warnings: Violence, sexual content.
Disclaimer: These characters and setting do not belong to me and are being used without permission but for no profit
Summary: After the Inception proves successful, Eames tracks down Robert out of concern for its unusual side effects. Meanwhile, Arthur is hired to a dangerous job that forces the rest of the team to take sides: whether to defend Robert and his fragile mind, or ruin him completely.
Notes: C&C Welcome and appreciated. Thanks to my beta chypie for her input!
"You remember all this, don't you?"
Robert opened his eyes. A man was lying in front of him, white and red and cold beneath his bare hands. The hiss of wet breath was familiar and terrifying, and the ring of ragged flesh stomach-churning. When he tasted copper on his lips he was convinced it had come from the bloody maw before him.
"What?"
Icy fingers curled against his wrist, burning delicate skin and sinking into bone. The floor rocked beneath them.
"This room. This fortress...me. You remember everything."
"No, I..."
Robert swallowed hard. He remembered a dry smile in the rain. He remembered long fingers skating across his lapels. He remembered sheets of ice falling down his back, and metal clanging beneath his boots, but none of those things remained in his mind long enough to form something as concrete as a memory.
"I don't know..."
The man was dying. A dark stain was slithering up and down his body, stretching towards Robert, weighing on them both. He didn't want to watch the man die. He couldn't bear to see his chest cease rising, hear the last gasp of his spent life. Couldn't watch his eyes roll back and skin turn white.
Robert pulled the trigger. Two shots hit him in the chest, throwing him down, and then it was his turn to die on his back with a man leaning over him. Cold hands fumbled his shirt up, stinging the skin beneath and pressing lightning into his blood. He jerked, and a voice spoke close to his ear.
"Am I boring you?"
Robert glanced to his left. The man was still with him, elbow on the hotel bar, chin in palm. His smile had been used a few too many times and had worn out.
"I was telling you my story. I guess it wasn't to your liking."
Robert stared back at him, relieved to find him alive, though not sure why. He smiled against the lip of his glass.
"What is your story?"
His story was a room full of empty faces. Robert moved down the line of them, poking at their cheeks and foreheads. They stared back at him, unblinking, until one by one they stretched away from the wall, dragging long black veils with them. In a herd they drifted out the chamber door and into a long, musty hallway, like pilgrim ghosts. He followed them, every step a little shorter, every breath a little younger. His suit sagged on his shoulders until it felt as long and heavy as the veils covering his peers. By the time he had reached the tall oak door at the end of the hall he was half the size of the rest, enduring their fleeting caresses to his face and throat.
Through the door was his father's office. The desk towered over him like a monolith, and behind it Maurice Fischer himself hunched, carved from stone. He regarded his son with old, unseeing eyes.
Robert pressed his hands to the desk. He was crying, and lonely, and he missed her so much. And his father could say nothing.
He awoke in the master bedroom of his tower suite, tangled in his sheets again. Before doing anything else he pulled himself to the edge of the mattress and looked to the corner. A silver briefcase lay on the floor near the wall, but there was no one seated next to it.
So it wasn't all a dream. Robert drew his fingertips over the cool silver. Eames. His name is Eames.
Robert climbed out of bed and hurried into the main room of the suite. His heart skipped when he didn't see his security at the sofa as he'd ordered, and he all but leapt at the door to the second bedroom and threw it open.
Erhard, Marcus, and Eames were seated around what was supposed to have been a bedside table, set in the center of the room. All three looked up, and his two bodyguards winced guiltily, trying to hide their hands full of playing cards. Had there been money visible as well Robert would have fired them both on the spot, but they appeared to be betting with folded paper footballs.
"Good morning, Mr. Fischer," Eames greeted with a sheepish smile. He was still dressed in his suit from the night before, though his tie was loose and the first two buttons of his shirt were undone.
"Good morning." Robert rubbed his eyes. "Erhard?"
He jerked upright. "Sir?"
"Order breakfast. I don't care what it is as long as there's coffee. After that you're both excused for the day--I won't need you until our dinner appointment."
- "Excuse me, Sir, but...breakfast for how many?"
Robert resisted the temptation to glance at Eames. "For two. If you eat at the restaurant downstairs feel free to charge it to my room."
"Thank you, Mr. Fischer."
Robert left them, grabbing up his cell phone on the way to the bathroom. His assistant picked up just after the first ring. "Shelby, please cancel all my appointments for today," he told her. "Tell Peter I'm taking his advice and I plan on spending the day resting in my room."
"Right away. Is there anything I can get for you?"
"Not at the moment. Just...relax today. For once."
He could almost see her tight-lipped smile. "Right away, Mr. Fischer."
They hung up, and Robert locked himself into the bathroom. He started the water in the bathtub, but before he could get further he looked again to his phone, and was reminded of his conversation with Eames hours earlier. There is one way to know if his story's true. After a great deal of deliberation he looked up a number and dialed quickly before he could change his mind.
"Proclus Global," a woman answered
"Yes, hello." What time is it in Japan? The afternoon? Robert rubbed his face. "This is Robert Fischer, of Fischer Morrow. I know this is a bit unusual but I need to speak to Mr. Saito immediately."
She took a moment to reply. "Excuse me, but is he expecting your call, Sir?"
"No, but it's urgent."
Another brief pause. "I'm very sorry, but Mr. Saito is not available at this time," she said. "If I could get your--"
"Put him on the phone, now," Robert interrupted tersely, "or I'm going to buy Proclus Global and sell it to the Chinese."
"...One moment, Sir."
Robert paced back and forth, and finally settled on the edge of the tub just in time to shut off the water. "Answer the damn phone," he grumbled.
"How can I help you, Mr. Fischer?"
Finally. He closed his eyes, telling himself that he was talking business, as he always did. "Mr. Saito. Did you hire a man named Eames to spy on me?"
Saito hesitated as infuriatingly as his secretary. "I beg your pardon?"
"I'm not going to the authorities," Robert continued. "I don't care that you got your pipeline. I don't care about any of that, so just tell me the truth: did you hire a man named Eames to spy on me and my company?"
"Tell me where you heard such a rumor, and I will answer your question," Saito replied carefully.
His toes curled against the cold tile. "It doesn't matter where I heard it, I just need to know."
"If this 'Mr. Eames' is there with you, I'd like to speak to him."
"No--you're speaking to me," Robert snapped. "Now answer the god damned question!"
Saito made a quiet, uncomfortable sound at the back of his throat. "Yes. I did."
Robert let his breath out in a rush. He was telling the truth about that at least. "And is he still working for you?"
Saito's answer came much more quickly. "No. I don't know what he might have told you, but Mr. Eames has not been under my employ for several weeks. Nor is he likely to be again."
"I see." Though Robert should have been infuriated, he had suffered worse from his rivals in the past, and he could not work up the indignation. He was much more interested in the reassurance he'd received: that at least part of Eames's story checked out. "If I ever find out that you've been interfering with my company again, I will run Proclus Global into the ground. Do you understand?"
"Very well," Saito said coolly. "Will that be all?"
"Yes. Good day, Mr. Saito."
Robert hung up, stripped, and sank into the steaming bathtub. The heat was blissful, and it was not until he was submerged up to his shoulders that he realized he had been clinging to the winter cold from his dream. He rubbed his chest, trying to erase the icy fingers. Eames. He said something is wrong with me. The thought made him shiver, and he drew the bath water over his face, trying to make it relax him. But you can't decide that from seeing one nightmare, can you? I've had dreams like that my entire life. He doesn't know anything about me.
Robert rose out of the tub only long enough to retrieve the soap, but rather than use it he kneaded it between his fingers and watched it dissipate across the water's surface. There was something ominous about how easily bits of soap sloughed off and soon became transparent.
Maybe there is something wrong with me, he thought, letting the bar sink to the bottom. When was the last time I felt like myself? He scoffed. Years, if ever. Maybe he knows something. He glanced to the door. Maybe...I can trust him.
Robert finished in the bathroom, and wrapped himself in a robe before exiting it. By then Erhard and Marcus had left, and Eames was plugging a cell phone charger into the wall. He glanced up. "Do you mind?"
"Planning on making a call?" Robert asked on his way to the bedroom.
"Not particularly." Eames turned his back discreetly and sat down at the table. "But that's not all phones do these days, is it?"
"I suppose not." Robert rifled through his wardrobe for a suit, and was halfway in it when he changed his mind and dressed in a gray one instead. "So what are you planning on doing with it?"
"I have a few tricks on it that I thought might help us."
Robert stopped in the middle of knotting his tie. "Help us," he repeated. He abandoned the tie on the bed and padded on bare feet up behind Eames's chair. "You said that before. What makes you think I need your help?"
Eames tipped his head back slightly, but he did not turn or try to see him. "If you don't want me here, I'll leave."
"No," Robert said quickly. There was a knock at the door, and he moved swiftly to answer. "No--you're not leaving until I say so, I mean that."
He opened the door, and stood back as a pair of bellboys wheeled in their breakfast. They smiled politely as they set the table and poured his coffee, but he had little patience for their niceties, and was quick to hand off tips and send them on their way. "Help yourself," he told Eames as he sat down across from him.
Eames hesitated. "As if I haven't taken advantage of your generosity enough?"
"It's just breakfast." He sipped his coffee, more eager for the caffeine than his stomach was. "And it's here so you might as well eat it."
"Well in that case..."
Eames pulled a napkin into his lap and began to eat, as voraciously as he could manage while still observing his manners. Robert shook his head, and was surprised when his stomach lurched as if in envy. It wasn't until he followed suit and swallowed a mouthful of fresh bread that he realized he was starving. He began to eat almost as eagerly as his guest, for the first time in what felt like weeks actually tasting his expensive breakfast.
"It's been a long time since I ate breakfast with someone," he recalled. "And the first time I've shared it with an agent of dream espionage."
Eames smirked as he gulped down a bite of sausage. "So you confirmed my story with Mr. Saito?"
Robert frowned. "You overheard me?"
"No. But I assumed you would." He poured a generous amount of creamer into his coffee. "I'm thinking I'd better not go to Japan for a while."
"He didn't sound happy with you. But I wouldn't be either, if I hired you only to find out you were giving sympathy to my enemy." Robert watched Eames closely. "If that's what you would call this."
Eames continued to eat, but he kept his full attention on his host. "I'm not sure what to call it myself," he admitted. "It's very unprofessional for a con like me to take a personal interest in a subject."
Personal interest. Robert shifted uncomfortably. "Are you saying I should be 'flattered' by your mind-invading?"
"All right--that may have been uncalled for," Eames said. "But my intentions were mostly good, and what I learned is important."
"Mostly good." Might as well get down to business. Robert sipped his coffee. "You mean, the fact that I've had subconscious training I didn't know about?" he asked. "Are you really certain about that?"
"Yes." Eames shrugged out of his suit jacket and tossed it onto a nearby chair. "I've been doing this for years," he said, sounding excited, "and I've never seen an untrained subject respond to a subconscious threat as quickly and with as much lucidity as you did last night. How did you know about Mr. Charles?"
"You mean, the man that shot you?" The memory raised the small hairs on the back of his neck, and when Robert tried to answer he quickly realized that he couldn't. "I don't know. The moment I saw him I knew who he was. Did you..." He narrowed his eyes at Eames. "Did you put him there?"
Eames shook his head. "No, but I think I know who did." He took another few quick bites of food. "I know some of the best extractors in the business, and I have a pretty strong hunch that one of them was the one that trained you. But in order to know for sure...I'd have to get a peek at your father's and Peter Browning's bank accounts."
At first Robert's heart sank in bitter disappointment, but when he took another look at Eames's focused eyes, he caught on. "You want to know if they paid money to an extractor without telling me? But how would you be able to tell?"
"Courtesy numbers," he explained. "As in, professional courtesy. You see, extractors like dream business because it's relatively tidy--it's easier for us to do what we do when the only casualties are in the brain. But when a subject has been trained, and an extractor goes in without knowing that, chances are good that everyone wakes up ahead of schedule and that's when things go wrong."
"So you warn each other." Robert surrendered a dull laugh. "You charge money to train people like me against extraction, and then render it useless by letting all your friends know that you've done it."
"No no, you still get your money's worth. It's just a heads up so that the extractors know what they're up against, to keep people from being hurt." A shadow passed over his face but Robert didn't bother questioning. "Anyway, we do this by charging specific amounts for our services, so that when someone does a background check on their subject, it gets flagged as a 'courtesy number.' Not every extractor does it, but the one I have in mind does, and I know exactly what to look for."
Robert sighed, and only his eager stomach kept him eating. "Even if I trusted you enough to just hand over account numbers, my father's money is still wrapped up in red tape miles long, you must know that. I can't search through millions of transactions for this friend of yours."
Eames wiped his mouth with his napkin and twisted around to retrieve his phone. "You said your father suggested training to you at one point. If you can remember when that was, we can narrow the search."
Something cold slithered through his gut and removed the rest of his appetite. He pushed his plate away. "I remember when it was."
Eames tapped on the screen of his phone a few times and then handed it to Robert. "Here--the numbers you're looking for. If your father sent a payment of one of those sizes around the time he mentioned it to you, chances are good you've had some of the best training money can buy."
Robert accepted the phone and glanced over the numbers. Would Father have done this? He fidgeted in his chair again, and at long last picked up his own phone. It was almost three years ago when he brought it up. I don't even remember what started it, except that it was a fight. Everything was a fight back then. He called Shelby, apologized for going back on his word, and relayed Eames's request, numbers, and the dates to her. "It will take a while," he told Eames after hanging up. "She's going to call back."
"Good." Eames finished his breakfast and faced Robert seriously. "Thank you, for trusting me enough to go through with this. I know it's not easy for you."
"I just want to know the truth," Robert said, pushing their plates onto the cart. "And seeing as you're the only one offering any, I might as well hear you out. You’ve been right about a few things, after all."
"You mean, about your dreams affecting you," Eames prodded. "Ever since your father's death."
"Yes." Robert took in a deep breath. "I can't say I've ever been a restful sleeper anyway, but the dreams, it's as if they've become..." He gestured vaguely with his hands. "More vivid. I used to not remember much when I woke up, but now I do. Unfortunately."
"Are they all the same?"
"No, not entirely. But I'm usually running...away from something, or chasing something." He shrugged. "Typical for most people, right?"
"Fairly. If the dreams aren't recurring we might as well start with last night's." Eames leaned forward against the table. "What can you tell me about the pinwheels?"
Robert frowned. "Pinwheels?"
"They were all over your dream," Eames said, watching him as if waiting for something to happen. "Did you not see them?"
I was watching you. He glanced away uncomfortably. "No. I didn't notice anything like that."
Eames hummed thoughtfully. "Do you know where they might have come from?"
Robert did not need long to consider, but it did take time for him to decide to share his conclusion. He opened his wallet and pulled out a folded photograph. "This, maybe," he said, passing it to him.
Eames accepted and looked it over. There was no surprise in his face, only a distant, almost weary nostalgia that reminded Robert of when he had shared the story about his own father the night before. "Is this an important memory for you?" he asked.
"Yes. Well, sort of." Robert took it back, staring pensively at the image of his father in his younger years. "I don't remember the day all that well. But my mother used to keep this photograph with her, so now...I do."
Eames was quiet a moment--how he knew that it was needed, Robert did not know, but he was grateful. It wasn't until Robert slipped the photograph back into his wallet that he continued. "Do your dreams often take from your memory?" he asked. "Such as recreating specific events?"
"I'm not sure. Yes, I suppose." Robert shook his head abruptly. "This is strange," he declared.
"Not everyone is prepared to take dream talk seriously," Eames admitted.
"It's not that, it's..." He hesitated to continue, feeling more embarrassed and out of place by the moment. "I'm not used to talking about myself."
"Ahh." Eames smiled sympathetically. "It's hard to find people that really care in your world, eh?"
Robert shook his finger at him. "No--don’t do that."
"Hm?"
"Don't try to goad me into any 'poor me, rich boy' nonsense," he said, pushing to his feet. "Because that's not what I meant and that's not who I am."
Eames leaned back and watched him. "That's not what I meant, either."
"Because it's not even about that," Robert continued. He suddenly began to pace in restless agitation. "I don't need anyone's sympathy. I've never asked for that, and especially not from strangers."
"You don't have to explain yourself to me."
"I'm not!" He fingered the front of his jacket. "I don't owe you that, either," he muttered. Something trembled in his chest and he wasn't sure why--when he looked to Eames and found him still watching so intently it made him nervous. "I'm just saying, I'm not used to talking about myself. What is there to say anyway? You're the one that's done all manner of research on me, right? And what good has it done? It hasn't, because you still had to break into my mind and you still don't know what's wrong with me, do you?"
Eames frowned at him. "You admit something's wrong."
"No, I'm...I'm not saying that," Robert stammered, running his hand through his hair. But I am. I'm rambling. His gaze darted to where the mirror had once been, now replaced with a painting of a rustic village landscape. There was a smear in the corner that reminded him of himself. "I'm saying...I'm not this person you seem to think I am. I'm not just some rich asshole with a dead family, I'm not..." He yanked at his jacket. "I'm not this goddamn suit!"
He fumbled with his suit buttons. This is when Peter grabs me by the arm, he thought as he tossed the jacket aside, not caring where it landed. And tells me to calm down, because I'm not acting like myself. I'm not who I'm supposed to...
He looked to his guest again. Eames had not moved from his chair and was still watching him, focused and serious without the gleam of pity he had grown used to seeing from others. He waited, breathless and a little frightened, for words of admonishment or a raised eyebrow. Eames offered neither, only silent patience. Gradually Robert's breath softened, and he wiped cold sweat from his forehead.
"What's happening to me?" he asked quietly.
Eames stood, and gently guided him to sit back down. "You're fine," he assured, squeezing his shoulder. "I understand what you're saying. You just want someone to listen."
Robert relaxed in his chair with a long sigh. "Maybe," he mumbled, feeling the truth in Eames's words sink into him. "It used to be Peter. When no one else cared, Uncle Peter was always there as an ear, but now..." He leaned back to better feel the hand at his shoulder. "Everything's changed. It started when Father got sick, and now that's he's gone, every time Peter looks at me it's with this face that says he's..."
The word halted in his throat, but Eames provided it for him: "Disappointed."
"...Yes." Robert lowered his head. "Just like my father."
Eames gave him another squeeze, and he sighed again, embarrassed by how comforting just that gentle gesture was. "You're right," he surrendered. "Everything feels so wrong now, but no one wants to hear it."
"I'm listening." Eames gave him a pat, and to Robert's disappointment, stepped away. "I know what it's like when you're struggling with something, and you don't feel as if anyone understands, because you don't understand it yourself. I didn't want you to feel that way."
Robert turned, watching him move to the bedroom and retrieve his PASIV case. The way Eames looked at the device as he righted himself gave him away. "Are you talking about your dreams?" Robert asked.
Eames smiled dryly. "Actually, yes. It took me a long time to learn my craft, and last night you saw right through me." He placed the PASIV on the bed and after checking over its contents, he closed it up. "It was very unnerving."
"Well." Robert folded his arms, unnerved himself. "I'm not apologizing."
His phone rang, bleating out a simple melody that he'd assigned to Shelby's number. His heart skipped and he quickly put it on speaker. "Yes?"
"Mr. Fischer? I think I've found what you're looking for," she said crisply. "It took a few phone calls, but there was a payment of $81,939.02 American sent from your father's personal account on the date of August 14th in the year you specified."
Eames stepped down from the bedroom. "Were there any notes? Any indication of what it was for?" he asked.
"Er, no, Sir. There's no record that I was able to find. Will that be all, Mr. Fischer?"
"Yes," Robert said distractedly. "Thank you, Shelby. You can take the rest of the day off now."
"Thank you, Mr. Fischer."
Robert hung up, and his heart sank all over again. "So it's true."
"Yes, I'm sure of it now." Eames snorted incredulously. "That sly bastard. That's the last time I trust him with my back, that's for certain."
Father hired someone to go into my brain. Robert stared straight ahead. A sudden pain throbbed between his temples, and he grimaced. Behind my back. He knew I didn't want that and he did it without telling me. He didn't trust me.
"Robert?" Eames was beside him before he was aware he'd moved. "Are you all right?"
His phone blurred into a black smudge in front of him, like a little tree in a village portrait. He shook his head. "I'm fine," he muttered. "A little dizzy..."
Warm fingers touched his face, startling him into lifting his head. His vision smeared and though he could tell it was Eames standing over him, he could not make him out entirely. "Like at the airport?" Eames asked urgently.
"What...?" Robert urged Eames's hand away and rubbed his eyes. "I'm just tired. It's so much to take in--I didn't sleep well--"
He stood up, thinking that he would move to the balcony and get a breath of fresh air, but with the first step his knees wobbled beneath him. Eames caught him just as he started to fall. "It is like before," Eames murmured, shifting as if deliberating. Before Robert could begin to get his footing again, an arm hooked around his stomach, and he found himself being hoisted up onto Eames's shoulder.
"Hey!" Robert struggled, but he was still dizzy, and when Eames turned suddenly he could not help but cling to his shoulders and back. "What the hell are you doing?" A few steps later they were in the bedroom, and he yelped ungracefully as he was heaved onto the king sized mattress. "Eames--"
"There's something going on in your mind right now," Eames said, opening the PASIV back up. "And I want to know what it is."
"What do you mean?" Robert started to sit up, but the room spun, and his temples pounded until he relaxed on his back again. "What is going on?"
Eames crawled onto the bed and slid one of the needles into his arm. "I've seen you make that face a few times now," he explained. "And I don't think it's just stress. I think it's some kind of symptom of your subconscious mind."
Is this really happening? Robert unbuttoned his cuff--he was caught up in Eames's urgency, and when he looked up, he saw honest concern mixed with the excitement in Eames's face. Has anyone ever looked at me like that? He offered up his arm, and warm fingers trailed down the inside of his wrist. His pulse stammered beneath them. This is important to him. He swallowed hard. "What should I do?"
"Just relax," Eames said. "Clear your mind, and let it go wherever it takes you." He taped the needle down and faced Robert with a reassuring smile. "Don't make that face--you're fine. I'll be nearby."
"Okay." Robert took in a deep breath and let it out. "I'm ready."
Eames nudged the PASIV between them and stretched out on his back. "Here we go," he whispered, and the device made a quiet hiss.
"What do you know about extraction?"
Robert glanced up. His father was seated across the table from him, vigorously carving his lamb. If you need to work so hard to cut it, you should just send it back, he thought with an irritated frown. "Extracting what?"
"Thoughts. Secrets." Maurice took a bite and chewed for what seemed like full minutes. "Memories."
"You mean dreamshare?" Robert poked with ill interest at his oysters. Who orders lamb at a seafood restaurant? "What about it?"
"What do you know about it?"
"I know what it is. That's about it." He stared at the candle flames dancing on prim white tablecloths, stared at the ripple of the bay beyond the cold glass windows, stared at the harp-string figure of the Anzac bridge looming in the distance--anything to keep from looking at his father. If he looked at him for too long, if he stayed too invested in the conversation, it would end up being another fight. "So?"
"There are extractors now that offer to train people like us to defend against it."
He laughed bitterly. "That's ridiculous." When his father did not respond he had little choice but to make eye contact again, and the seriousness he was met with made his stomach churn. He plucked the spinning decoration out of his wine glass so he could take a long drink. "Don't tell me you're going to pay for a scam like that," he scoffed.
"I am." Maurice leaned back, but as he did a shimmer lingered where he had once been, like an afterimage of streaking car lights. "And so are you."
Robert tensed defensively. "No I'm not."
"It's just another level of security," Maurice continued. "You and I both have sensitive information regarding the company, and--"
"And that's what bodyguards are for," Robert interrupted. "I am not paying someone to mess with my brain. It's ludicrous."
Maurice shook his head. "That's what I thought too, when Peter first mentioned it to me. But now I wonder." He wiped his mouth with his napkin, and when he continued, his voice crackled before settling into a tone of concern. "You and I are valuable men, Robert. We have enemies. And we--"
"They're your enemies." Robert's hands clenched to fists against the table. He was sick of the old arguments, and the dull look that overtook his father's eyes when they had them. "It's your company, as you've had to remind me a few times just tonight."
"People are going to try to hurt you," Maurice insisted. "Not just because of me, but because of decisions you've made as well. You were the one that pushed to bankrupt Wisermen, weren't you?"
Robert rolled his eyes. "What would have been the point of settling? It was the right decision--even Uncle Peter agreed."
A shadow fell over Maurice's face. His eyes darted back and forth, and emotions conflicted in the twitches around his mouth. It did not occur to Robert to find it strange. "You spend more time with Peter these days," he said quietly.
"Peter doesn't invite me to dinner and then ambush me," Robert snapped. "I am not allowing some kind of mind hacker anywhere near me, I mean it." The thought alone felt like ice in his veins, stinging and ominous. "Just finish your dinner so we can go home." He gulped down the rest of his wine.
Maurice's shoulders trembled. "Don't speak to me that way."
"How should I speak to you?" Robert took his napkin out of his lap and tossed it on the table. "Should I call you 'Dad'? Should I just say 'yes' to your every asinine request? Sorry I'm not a good enough son for you."
"Stop it," Maurice hissed. "I'm only trying to protect you. I don't want you to be hurt because of me."
"You just said it was my own fault--which is it? No, never mind." Robert pushed away from the table. "I don't care which it is. I'm not listening to this anymore."
The patrons in the seats closest to them looked up. Robert was glad for their confused stares, triumphant, even, but his mood deflated when he saw the disappointment with which is father was watching him. "I'm leaving," he said, without the force he'd intended.
"Please just consider it," Maurice replied.
His response was calm, without innuendo or condescension, and though Robert sensed true sincerity the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. "This isn't about me," he told his father coldly. "You're just afraid that I'm too weak to take care of myself, and that it'll cost the company, aren't you? You don't give a damn what happens to me."
"That isn't true."
"Yes it is!" Robert regretted each word as he spoke them, but they came out anyway. "You care more about the god damn company than your own family!"
Maurice pounded his fist on the table, rattling dishes and silencing the rest of the dining room. "I told you not to speak to me that way!"
Robert started, but as soon as he regained his composure he scowled and marched away from the table. He felt his lips move but no sound came out. With the curiosity of a roomful of Sydney elite on his back he did not stop until he reached the exit. Unable to prevent himself, he looked back.
Maurice stood next to the table. His face was a smear in the dull, candle-lit room, but Robert did not have to see him properly to know the pain etched into his expression. Everything he had said was true. His son was a fool not to see it.
Robert escaped from the restaurant and breathed in cool night air. Guilt strangled his chest and stung the back of his throat as he let the memories of that night overflow him. For long moments he stood on the curb, eyes pressed shut, forcing the ache between his temples to recede.
He wiped his mouth. "Eames...?"
A man stepped out of the evening crowd and moved to his side. "I'm here."
Robert didn't recognize the voice, but by the time he turned he found that it was indeed Eames standing next to him, dressed in the same suit he had been wearing while they were awake. "Did you see all that?" he asked.
"Yes, all of it." Eames watched him closely, but gave him another minute to catch his breath before speaking again. "That was one of your memories?"
"Yes..." Robert at last calmed, and he sighed. "I was such a fool," he murmured, voice rough with regret. "He really was trying to protect me. I saw it, I did, but I was just so...so angry, and selfish." He rubbed his weary eyes. "I wasn't ready to believe that he really cared about me. If only I'd...."
Eames remained quiet, but his hand strayed from his side. Robert took it, and when he squeezed he could have sworn it was more real than the people moving about them, than the dull glow of sunset beyond the bridge. It gave him the encouragement needed to go on. "He really did love me, you know," he said. "In his own way."
Eames's fingers twitched. "Robert. Tell me about when your mother died."
"What?" The change of subjects caught him off guard, as did the almost unblinking scrutiny of his comrade. "What do you mean?"
"You were eleven years old," Eames prompted. "You went to him in your grief. What did he say to you?"
Robert frowned. He remembered the feeling of the old oak desk beneath his hands. He remembered his father's dull, unseeing eyes. "He didn't say anything," he recalled. The memory spread more pangs of indescribable shame through him. "He was in so much pain then, but he was never good with emotion. He didn't know how to console himself, let alone me. I wish...I wish I had been older, so I could have better understood how much he needed me."
He sighed deeply in regret. "Not that it would make much difference. Look what I just did in there. No wonder he was so goddamned disappointed! He was trying to be a real father to me, and I..."
Eames's hand slid across his chest, and he jumped. When he looked down, he saw that it was to pluck the folded handkerchief out of his breast pocket--except that it wasn't just a fashionable triangle anymore. It had somehow folded itself into a pointed pinwheel.
Robert glanced between it and Eames's furrowed brow, not understanding the significance. "What's the matter?"
Eames held the object delicately as if afraid it might shatter. His fingers, still entwined with Robert's, grew clammy. "Your father loved you," he said quietly. "That's what this means."
"What?" Robert's heart skipped. "What do you mean?"
"It represents your innermost desire," Eames continued, still staring at the pinwheel as if in a trance. "Your subconscious is obsessed with it." He licked his lips. "You're desperate to believe that your father loved you, against all opposition. Even from your own memories."
All around them men and women turned to stare with cold and threatening eyes. "What are you talking about?" Robert demanded. He grew tense and his eyes narrowed. "My father did care about me. He just didn't--"
"That story you just told me--it's the third time I've heard it." Eames nodded to his hand, where the cloth pinwheel was turning slowly on his open palm. "And it's different every time. Last time, you told me he spoke to you."
Sweat formed on Robert's forehead. He tried to remember, but no matter how many times he recalled his father in the office, he heard nothing. "No he didn't."
"He told you, 'There's really nothing to be said.'"
Eames curled his fingers, and the sight of them distorting the carefully shaped fabric made Robert go pale. He grabbed Eames's wrist and pried his hand open. "I don't know what you're talking about--that's not what happened."
The projections began to crowd in closer, whispering to each other. Though Robert managed to pull the pinwheel from Eames's grasp it was already limp and misshapen, and he felt inexplicably sick. "Why are you lying to me?" he gasped out. "I know what I remember." He looked around them, and when he realized that the throngs were watching him panic simmered across his skin. "Wake me up."
"I can't," Eames said. "But there was barely any Somnacin left when we started. It should run out soon."
"Wake me up," Robert demanded again, and when Eames only shook his head, he grabbed the front of his suit angrily. "Why are they staring at me? You're the one doing this! You're the one that's lying!"
Eames sighed. "I don't know what happened in this restaurant, but it wasn't what we just saw. You're trying to make yourself believe something that isn't true."
"But I remember!" Robert trembled, and when he looked again to the hissing projections their faces grew cold and plastic. Their hair blackened and stretched, weaving into lace and satin veils. "Wake me up--I've had enough." He drew closer to Eames. "Please wake me up."
Eames took him by the shoulders. "It's all right--it's not you they're mad at."
A hand touched Robert's back, and he jumped, holding his breath. The wraiths pawed at him, their fingers leaving cold trails against his clothing and skin. "Yes it is," he whispered, trying to lean away from them by leaning into Eames. "It is me."
The world started to spin. Robert closed his eyes, concentrating on Eames's arms around him to block out the icy fingernails scratching at his back. He could feel the projections shifting and crowding all around, and when they tried to pull him away from Eames he resisted, his jaw clenching.
"It's wearing off," Eames assured him, his voice a low rumble in his ear. "Just stay still..."
Robert gasped sharply and opened his eyes. He was lying in bed once more, a soft mattress at his back rather than swaying ghosts. His throat stung when he swallowed, and his fingers ached, wrapped tightly around a broader, warmer hand.
He glanced to his right. Eames was there, staring at the ceiling in distant contemplation. They looked at each other, letting their breath even out until the dream had faded completely from all five senses. For short moments the room was silent as Robert tried to come to terms with the unsettling truth unleashed from his dreams.
I can't trust my memory. Robert leaned closer until their shoulders touched. Eames's acceptance was only a faint shift on the mattress, but it was more welcoming and more intimate than anything Robert had felt in a long time. I'm coming apart and the only one who cares is a stranger. He sighed, taking solace in the warmth of another body alongside his. Maybe it's fitting that way.
There was a knock on the door. Eames glanced to it and back to Robert. "I'll get it," he offered. He let go of Robert's hand so he could remove the PASIV needles from them both. "Relax."
Robert rubbed his arm as Eames climbed off the bed and moved away. He had not come close to deciding what to do next when the door opened, and a very familiar and very irate voice boomed through.
"You!" Browning shoved his way into the suite. "What the hell are you doing here?"
God damn it. Robert rolled to the edge of the mattress.
"Ahh, Mr. Browning," Eames greeted. "A pleasure to see you again."
"Did you not get it the first time, kid?" Browning sneered. "I told you..." He glanced away just in time to see Robert standing up from the bed, and his face turned red. "Jesus, Robert..."
Robert rubbed his eyes as he approached. "Peter, it's not what it looks like."
"Didn't I warn you about him?" Peter insisted angrily. He poked Eames hard in the chest. "This man is a con! There is no Fred Simmonds!"
"I know who he is," Robert said.
"When Shelby said you were taking the day off I didn't think it was for this." Browning turned on Eames again. "And you! I knew you had balls but you're a damn fool if you really think you can sleep your way into this company!"
Eames held his hands up. "You're right about one of those, at least."
Browning growled, and grabbed Eames by the front of his shirt. "You son of a--"
"Peter!" Robert quickly stepped between them and pushed Browning back. "Stop it," he said firmly. "I know what I'm doing."
Browning stepped back, flushed and scowling. "So do I." He turned to march from the room. "I'm calling security."
"Wait, Peter--" Robert tried to grab for him but he was already in the hall and moving swiftly. He turned to Eames. "You'd better--"
"On my way," Eames chirped as he retreated to the bedroom and started gathering his things. "That was an unfortunate misunderstanding, now wasn't it?"
Robert rubbed his face. "To be fair, the last time he caught me, he wasn't wrong," he grumbled.
Eames glanced to Robert with raised eyebrows. Smirking, he closed the PASIV into his larger briefcase. "That wasn't in the research."
Robert picked up Eames's discarded jacket, and they met each other at the open door. "Eames..." He shifted anxiously as he watched Eames finish dressing. "We're leaving Munich tomorrow," he said carefully, "to spend a week in New York. After that we're going to back Los Angeles. Will you meet me there?"
He straightened. "I can manage, if that's what you want."
"It is." Robert stepped forward, and pressed his hand to Eames's chest, stilling him. "I'll still need your help if I'm going to figure out what's going on in my mind. And after what I saw in your mind last night..." He met Eames's eyes seriously. "I think you might need my help, too."
Eames smiled, though there was uncertainty hidden behind his easy expression that betrayed him. "Then I'll see you in Los Angeles." He covered Robert's hand, giving it a light squeeze that seeped unexpected warmth into his skin. "Take care of yourself until then," he said. "And don't let Browning take you to Dr. Banks."
"I'll watch my back," Robert replied. "I've been doing it this long." He swallowed hard and retrieved his hand. "You'd better not back out on me, Eames."
"I won't." Eames thumped him on the shoulder and headed out. "Wouldn't want Browning to think he had me beat."
He hurried down the hall and ducked into the stairwell just as the elevator jingled its arrival. Erhard and Marcus stepped out, goaded on by a still red-faced Browning. With a sigh Robert retreated into the room, taking what little time he had to prepare for another onslaught of accusations.
Peter doesn't understand. Eames might not either, but he's the closest I have. He poured himself another cup of coffee and sat down just as Browning entered. And he'll be back. He has to come back.
To Chapter 7