Inception Big Bang: Breaking and Entering (Part 1/2) (R)
Title: Breaking And Entering (Part 1/2)
Author: darkseraphim21
Artist: ruins_of_sodom
Word Count: 9,759 (Part One), 16,965 (total)
Rating: R
Pairing: Eames/Robert
Warnings: Mild sexual content, nudity, adult language, violence, character death(s)
Summary: "Recruited" by Robert to form a counter-offense against inception and the team behind it, Eames finds himself biting off more than he can chew with his feisty new employer. While Cobb and his team prepare for their inception on Robert, Eames and Fischer find themselves testing the boundaries of their complicated relationship. Used to getting a job done, quickly and efficiently, Eames is disturbed by just how much he wants to protect Robert.
Art is embedded, but please do check it out at ruins_of_sodom's journal.
First and foremost I want to give much love, appreciation and heaps of adoration to ruins_of_sodom, not only for his amazing artwork,but for his tireless assistance in actually making this story possible. He's an incredible friend to ping ideas off of, and most of the time, he's my brain when my own brain is full of mush. So thanks to Dan for being such an inspiration, incredible sounding board, and the kick in the ass I needed to get this story finished. Seriously, bb, if I had the time and resources, I'd be building a shrine in your honor.
I also want to thank kick_back_80s for their fabulous betaing job! :D
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Breaking and Entering
Mombasa, Kenya
Eames stared through the smoke and into his opponent’s eyes. Sweat rolled down the center of his back and down his brow, stinging in his right eye. He blinked it away absently, not allowing his opponent to see what could be mistaken for any kind of weakness.
“Show ‘em,” the man across from him grunted, blowing smoke from his nostrils and flicking his cigarette into the ashtray between them.
Eames laid his cards on the table. “Full house,” he said, “Sorry, mate. Rough luck.”
He reached for the money crumpled on the table, but was stopped by a heavy, emphysemic laugh. “Ah-ah,” the man chided, fanning his cards out. “Four sevens.”
The man had cheated, of course. Eames couldn't pretend he was upset, after all, he had cheated too. The problem was he hadn’t cheated enough.
He had been out cheated.
It was an unusual turn of events, and Eames wasn't really sure how to handle the situation. He supposed he could have snatched the money and ran off; he could probably make it about ten feet before the man and his ‘friends’ shot him in the back.
But it wasn't about the money. The money had never been the point.
It was about winning.
“Another game, friend?” The man asked, smiling wryly.
“I think I’ll pass,” Eames said, tucking a cigarette into the corner of his mouth and standing from the table. He lit his smoke and exhaled slowly. “Think I've lost enough of my money for one night.”
The man looked up, and Eames caught a dangerous flash in his eye. He had been stupid not to notice it earlier. Now that he had though, what could he do about it? The men who flanked the man were nothing terribly imposing, but Eames could see the shape of guns under their jackets. Semi-automatic, if he knew anything about weapons.
“Right, well, I’m buggered,” Eames said, looking between the man and his companions. “Night all.”
The man nodded, smiling his same wry smile. His pale eyes looked empty to Eames, as though he had been drained completely. Eames felt like he was looking at a corpse, and a small shiver worked up his spine.
What the hell was wrong with him? He was getting worked up over some shyster and his ridiculous entourage. The men would be fools to attack him openly; Mombasa was not the height of social justice, but there would still be a consequence for gunning him down. Besides which, what would the men want with him anyway? He was no one important, no one that they would bother themselves with. They had guns on them, who the hell didn’t?
Eames backed away from the table, watching the men carefully. He wanted to appear normal, like he hadn't noticed the guns or the man's pale, dead eyes. Then again, he didn't want to give them an opportunity to turn him into mince meat. The thought of his own unimportance did little to calm him when he was so sure he would turn and feel bullets rip into his back.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Eames?” The man asked
“No, no,” Eames said, shaking his head with a bit too much vehemence. “No problem.”
“Goodnight, then.”
“Right, goodnight,” Eames said, quickly turning and walking to the front door. His cigarette smoldered in his fingers, and when he was outside he pitched it into the street. There was a swampy feeling to the air, clinging to him like a second skin. He was obviously jumping at shadows, behaving erratically; it was so unlike him.
He hoofed over to his apartment, hardly five minutes from the bar; it felt more like five years to Eames, moving through the hot Mombasa air. It clung to him like tar, and he shrugged himself out of his over-shirt as he walked, tossing it over his shoulder.
Eames refused to look over his shoulder, refused to give in to paranoia. Because that was surely what it was: paranoia. There was no one following him, there was no reason to feel as though he were being stalked through the night. After all, what reason did the man and his goons have to chase after him? He had paid them their money.
A part of Eames hoped the men would come. He had never been one to beg for a fight, but he had also never been the type to refuse a fight. His blood was pumping, and he thought if the men did come, he would be able to take at least one of them down before he was slaughtered.
It was a wonderfully romantic way to die: swinging. Eames smiled as he climbed the rickety stairs to his apartment. ‘Apartment’ was being incredibly kind, where Eames lived -- actually, ‘lived’ was being kind as well -- was nothing more than a studio. He had enough room for a small sofa, a fridge, and a television set. Oh, and a rather handsome leather chair that faced the apartment's one small window. He was fond of that chair, loved to run his fingers over it...
Eames was beginning to think he needed a woman.
He knew the moment he entered the room that he wasn't alone. He could feel someone in the darkness with him, he could smell the spiciness of some expensive cologne. Eames held his breath and pressed himself against the wall, though he knew it would be no good. The person had already heard him enter. There was no hiding.
Eames debated between charging the room blindly and running away. But he couldn’t, running had never been in his blood. As it turned out, he was given no opportunity to do either.
“Good evening, Mr. Eames,” a smooth, cultured voice said from the shadows. The man in the darkness seemed perfectly at ease, but of course, he hadn’t had his home broken into. “I was wondering if we could speak for a few minutes. I know it’s dreadfully late, but...Once you hear what I have to say, you might not mind our...unorthodox meeting.”
“Bloody unorthodox,” Eames snapped, “That’s putting it mildly, eh? Who the hell are you? What do you want?”
There was a small chuckle, and the slight noise of fabric shifting against skin. Eames listened, intently, and then leapt at the intruder, catching the man around his middle. His slender middle, as it turned out. What kind of man, probably weighing one hundred and forty pounds soaking wet, broke into someones home and waited for them? Without any kind of protection?
“Mr. Eames,” the man whispered, and Eames could feel his breath against his throat, “I’m aware that you're a passionate man, but there will be time in the future to ravage me, if you like.”
“You’re really starting to piss me off, mate,” Eames grunted, “Who the fuck are you?”
“Names are so trivial, really.”
“Well, you know mine,” Eames said, “Let’s make it even.”
The man sighed, his breath once more hot and heavy on Eames’ neck. “My name is Robert Fischer,” the man said, “Does that satisfy you, Mr. Eames?”
“No,” Eames said, “Keep talking.”
“It’s difficult to talk in this position,” Robert murmured, “Could you let me go? If you believe I intend to harm you, you're mistaken. Had I wanted to, I would have. You would be dead if that was why I was here.”
The man had a point. Not a point that Eames was particularly thrilled to hear, but still. Eames released Robert, backing up from him slowly.
“Do you know about dream share, Mr. Eames?”
What the fuck?
The man was obviously from Cobol, but why would an agent be hunting him? Probably something to do with Cobb, that dim arsehole. Eames kept his composure, but just barely.
“Who sent you?” Eames asked.
Robert laughed. There was something in that laugh that irritated Eames, the smugness perhaps. Or maybe it was the fact that it was a laugh that a man offered a slow, dimwitted child. You don’t understand, that laugh said, But it’s not your fault.
“I sent me,” Robert explained, “I’m curious about you. From what I’ve heard, there’s no one better in the business at...what you do. I've been assembling a little team to attempt a...tactical maneuver, if the phrase means anything to you. Call it a practice in self preservation.”
“I'd suggest you start making sense soon, Mr. Fischer,” Eames said, “I don't have all bloody night.”
“Actually, you do,” Robert said, “But I see your point. Let me make this as simple as possible. It’s come to my attention that I may be under...scrutiny. I can't tell why, but the reason doesn't matter. I’m in need of some counter-offense.”
“Why would someone be interested in you?”
“Plenty of reasons, all of them boring,” Robert said. “As I said before, the reason doesn't matter. What matters is not allowing them the opportunity. I need someone of your skill to put a stop to it.”
“What could I do?” Eames asked. “If you're talking about dream share, there’s not a whole lot that---”
“Inception,” Robert said, and Eames forgot, for a moment, how to breathe. The word held a frightening kind of power over Eames; that power was hypnotic, damn alluring. When he thought of inception, Eames’ gut was twisted. Angry, lustful... He knew that inception existed, but he had never known it to really work.
It hadn't worked for him.
“Inception,” Eames repeated, “Are you daft? What in God’s--- I can understand counter-offensive, but you're talking full blown nuclear war. Bollocks.”
“Can it be done?” Robert asked, ignoring Eames’ protests.
If he were going to discuss such things with a total stranger, he at least needed to see the man's face. There was only so much he could gauge about Robert Fischer through his voice. If he could see his eyes, get a good look at them, Eames was sure he could understand more about him.
Eames flicked on the small lamp by the window, fumbling for a few moments before his room was filled with warm, slightly dim light. He stared at Robert for what could have only been a few seconds, but what felt to Eames to be an interminable length of time.
Robert was young, that was the first thing Eames noticed. Mid-thirties, if Eames had to guess. His bone structure was...unique. That was the only way Eames could think to describe it. Delicate features, but masculine contour. His jaw was broad, his eyelids were heavy, his nose was hawkish, but his lips were soft and his eyelashes were thick and curled.
His eyes were an unnatural, startling blue. Eames had never seen eyes so blue. Unnaturally haunting, but unnaturally beautiful if Eames was being honest.
“Can it be done or not, Mr. Eames?” Robert asked, “I'd hate to hear I spent fourteen hours on a plane just to find out I’ve wasted my time.”
Eames dropped himself into his chair, stroking his fingers lovingly over the leather. It was a comfort to him, though he must have looked strange to Robert. “You're talking about something that you don't even understand,” Eames said. “You might as well come here and ask me about slaying dragons, Mr. Fischer--”
“I think you’re lying to me, Mr. Eames,” Robert said.
Eames heard the men enter his room before he saw their shadows stretch across his wall. He knew who they were, and refused to stand and meet them. The men he had played against earlier that night.
He hadn't been paranoid after all. In some ways, that made Eames feel better. He felt as good as a man could when faced with certain death.
“Did you really think I would come here without an insurance policy, Mr. Eames?” Robert asked.
“Mr. Eames is my father,” Eames said dryly, smiling at them man humorlessly. “Drop the mister, eh?”
“There’s something you're not telling me,” Robert said, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. “Eames. I have it on good authority that you know something about inception. That you have experience.”
“Who've you been talking to?”
“My contacts are my business,” Robert said, crossly. He sighed, and his face and voice softened. “Listen to me, Eames,” he said, “I want to do this as diplomatically as possible. I don't want to hurt you, I don't want my associates here to hurt you. But you need to level with me, Eames, you need to tell me what you know.” Those blue eyes looked at him, deep and lovely; “Please,” Robert said.
Eames looked away from Robert, not liking the way those eyes melted him. He had always been the one breaking people, the one forcing them to crumble and spill their guts, to give up their most guarded secrets. It seemed unjust that Robert would overpower him so easily.
“It was a total failure,” Eames said, “I tried it before. Tried to go down deep, three levels. The team was too inexperienced. The whole thing was...completely fucked. Someone was trained, but it wasn’t us. The fucker was militarized, and fucking hard. I figured it wasn't possible, but---”
“But?” Robert asked, poking and prodding in just the right tone. Soft, patient, infinitely tender. Eames knew when he was being guided, and it pissed him off that he was allowing it.
“It could be done,” Eames said, looking back at Robert, “Could be. With the right team, the right finesse, the right approach. If we’d had more time to prepare, more time to get to know who we were doing it on.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Eames, but getting to know that target is your job.”
Eames said nothing.
“Was it the failure of your team, or your failure?” Robert asked, “Be straight with me, Eames.”
“It was my fault,” Eames snapped, “Are you fucking satisfied?”
“Were you young?”
“I was born old,” Eames said, “Didn't you know that? I came from the bleeding womb like this.”
“How young, Eames?” Robert prodded.
“Seven years ago,” Eames said, “Not young, but as far as being mentally prepared. I was a goddamn kid.”
Robert walked over to where Eames sat and knelt before him. It would have been easy for Eames to take Robert by the throat and strangle the life out of him. But he knew if he even flinched a muscle, the men stationed behind him would open fire. They’d probably end up turning him and Robert into mince meat, but Eames didn't doubt they'd do it all the same.
Robert, had, after all, come prepared. Possibly even prepared to die.
“You strike me as the kind of man who knows a good opportunity when he sees one,” Robert said, “Also, you seem the type who would want to redeem himself. I’m giving you another chance.”
“At what, exactly?” Eames asked.
“Inception,” Robert said, and Eames felt that same shiver run through his body. “I’ve been told you're the best, and that any team I build without you won't be worth anything. I always get what I want, Eames, one way or another.”
“Which means I don't have a choice here,” Eames said, looking into Robert’s eyes. He expected the man to blink first, or look away, but Robert stared back at him impassively. For such a small, meek looking man, he had balls. Eames could respect that, even if he wasn't fond of Robert’s methods. Not when they were used on him anyhow.
“You're as clever as they said," Robert said, smiling. “Will you come willingly? I'd hate for things to get messy.”
What could he do? If he moved so much as an inch, he would be shredded with bullets. He had no doubt that the men stationed behind him wouldn’t hesitate to unload on him. They were probably looking forward to it.
Inception had haunted him for years; haunted and seduced him. Eames thought it could be possible, with the right team and the right preparation. There would have to be intense care given to detail and planning. Looking at Robert, Eames couldn’t imagine he would hand over the reins willingly. He seemed to enjoy being in control. Eames, however, had never been an easy beast to tame.
“Fine,” Eames agreed. “Is this the part where you tie me up?”
“No,” Robert said. “That comes later.”
****
Sydney, Australia
Eames hadn’t expected Robert to spoil him so lavishly. The flat he was provided could fit his tiny room in Mombasa within it several times over. He almost lost himself there the first night, and he had only been stumbling to the bathroom for a piss.
He listened to Robert talk about his father’s failing health, and the fate of his business. Eames listened to him, but not with as much attentiveness as Robert apparently desired, because the man grabbed his face -- like he were a small child -- and forced their eyes to meet.
“I’m aware that most of this information might seem trivial to you, Eames. But it’s important. If it weren't important, I wouldn't have come to you, and I wouldn't be fighting against people I don't even know. So do me a favor and listen. That is what you do, isn't it? You watch and you listen.”
“Typically I know what the fuck I’m listening for,” Eames murmured.
“That’s bullshit,” Robert snapped. It was the first time Eames had seen his composure slip, the first time he had seen those blue eyes sharpen. “The job you do, you go in completely blind. You don't know what you're looking for until you find it. Don't insult my intelligence, Eames. I’m not a stupid man.”
Eames leaned back his chair, resting his face in his palm. It wasn't an invitation for Robert to continue, but Robert took it as one regardless.
Eames could tell a great many things from watching the man, and from listening to him. He loved to posture, to flaunt his status and his money. He loved to appear confident, always in control, on top of things. These were things he had probably learned from his father, the things that he probably resented in the man; the things Robert Fischer would see in himself when he was strong enough and courageous enough to face them.
Beneath all of that, Eames saw nothing more than a frightened little boy. He did not imagine that frailty to make Robert seem less imposing, or his threats less real; the truth was there in Robert’s eyes.
“I don’t know who these people are who are coming after me,” Robert explained, “But I can only guess it has something to do with Fischer-Morrow.”
“Why not come after your father, then?” Eames asked, “He’s the head honcho around here, isn’t he? The Big Kahuna, if that pleases you. You're second fiddle. Or not even. Third? Your father is dying, if they were after the company, they'd just sit on their hands. Let him die, unless they--- Never mind.”
“What?” Robert asked, “Unless they what?”
“The whole point of inception is to plant an idea. Subtly. To never let the person know that the idea isn't their own. If the idea is related to, what was it, Fischer-Morrow? If it’s meant for you...someone isn’t happy about the thought of you taking the helm from your father.”
“Why?” Robert asked, composure slipping away more and more. He looked harried, flustered, without a single idea in his pretty little head. Eames rather liked him that way. “If, they, these people...if they wanted the company to fail, my taking over would be just what they wanted.”
“I don't really understand you, Robert,” Eames said, “You parade around like the King of the Castle, but then you sit there and tell me you don't even know if you can run a company. I wonder if you ever thought you could resort to kidnapping? You did alright with that.”
“It wasn't kidnapping,” Robert defended, but he would not meet Eames’ eyes. “It was...strategic. I convinced you to come along with me, Eames, that’s hardly kidnapping.”
“With guns," Eames said, chuckling when Robert flushed, “Hardly diplomatic of you, but then again, you also blackmailed me. With my own ego. That was a bloody strategic thing to do.”
“You don't sound as pissed as I expected you to,” Robert said.
“Why would I be?” Eames asked, standing and crossing to the minibar beside the bed. He rummaged around for a few moments before turning with two small bottles of vodka. “Can't tell you I was living the high-life, mate. I've taken worse jobs than this, and with less...benefits.”
“I trust you're referring to the apartment,” Robert said, watching Eames as he crossed the floor with the small bottles clinking in his hand. The only answer Eames gave him was a smile and a little wink before he sank into the chair and handed Robert one of the bottles.
“A little early in the morning to be drinking,” Robert said.
“A little early in the morning to be working, too,” Eames murmured. He unscrewed the cap and stuck the bottle out, inviting Robert to join him. “To...what would you say, Robert?”
“To...success," Robert said, “And an unusual partnership.”
“Cheers,” Eames laughed, clinking his bottle against Robert’s.
****
Mombasa, Kenya
Cobb rechecked his notes for the hundredth time, wiping sweat off his brow as he looked at the address scratched in his messy handwriting. This was the place, no doubt about it. Eames would be inside, on the third floor. The bar he had visited earlier had been a bust; no one had seen Eames for at least a week, even though it had reputedly been one of his regular haunts.
Cobb had a sinking feeling in his gut, though he couldn't explain why. Even if Eames weren't there, that didn't mean something had happened to him. Eames had always been a bit of a drifter, moving from place to place, living under assumed names. Cobb had always thought the man meant to protect himself with his behavior, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized Eames only enjoyed the game.
There was something seductive about the lifestyle for Eames. No one really knew him. He was a chameleon, becoming whoever he pleased with very little effort. It was his job, after all, but Cobb thought it went deeper than that. It had not been the job of forging that had changed Eames into a perfect chameleon, rather Eames had been attracted to the job because of his “talents.”
He wasn't sure why he was standing there thinking about why Eames did what he did, and why he might have taken off. It was a hundred and fourteen degrees, he was sweating like a hog, and he hadn't even checked Eames’ apartment.
Sighing and tucking his notes into his back pocket, Cobb moved inside and made his way to the third floor.
Eames’ apartment was unlocked, not a terrific sign, but not a terrible omen as his gut seemed to insist with its churning and knotting. Cobb pushed inside and looked around the small space, seeing nothing out of place. If Eames was gone, it was obviously of his own volition. Cobb could find no signs of a struggle, no sign that Eames had been taken by...
That was the problem, Cobb had no idea who would harm or abduct Eames. The man was more than a chameleon, he was a ghost when he needed to be. He could more than be whoever he wanted to be; he could be no one at all.
Eames wasn't there.
There was no use searching the place. Quite honestly, there's wasn’t much “place” to search. Cobb did find a rather strange note on Eames end-table, however; it read simply Gone Fishing.
Whatever that meant.
****
Sydney, Australia
“You're talking about doing more than stopping inception,” Eames said, studying Robert as he twirled spaghetti around his fork. It was amazing, really. Robert was the only man Eames had ever known who could eat spaghetti without getting an ounce of sauce on his chin. Eames was fairly sure that meant the man was some kind of warlock.
“I’m talking about a reversal,” Robert agreed, dabbing his mouth with a napkin -- though he needn't have bothered -- and taking a small sip of wine. “I have my sources, Eames, and I've heard that whoever is coming after me is well trained with dream share. But not with inception. Any team they assemble will be crippled without you. I’m suggesting you...catch them in their own trap.”
“Trap them there,” Eames said, honestly spell bound by Robert’s cunning and complete disregard for ethics and human suffering. Eames was a little turned on by the attitude, and he showed Robert this with his smile. “You really are a cheeky bastard, Robert. You realize that if they're trapped there...if they don't ride the kick...they’ll be there for years. Decades. I want you to understand what that means.”
“I understand,” Robert said, pale eyes unflinching, “Their minds will age, their souls if you want to get poetic. They’ll wake up here, eventually, and their bodies will be the same. But inside they’ll know that they're ancient. It’s a cruel thing to do to a person. Almost inhuman.”
“But?” Eames asked.
“But I don't care,” Robert said, looking at Eames as though he meant to gauge his reaction, “I never asked to be pursued in this way, you understand. I never asked to be the target of their perverse little experiment. But I am, and that’s their mistake. This is war, Eames. Something tells me you're familiar with the concept.”
“I am,” Eames said, looking around the restaurant as though he suspected someone might swoop down on them. It was an irrational fear, but it was there, clawing at him all the same.
“I’ve been thinking of all the people I know who're ballsy enough to take a stab at a job like this,” Eames continued, pausing to tear off a piece of bread and run it through the marinara sauce on his plate. He could see Robert was anxious for him to continue, and he smiled before popping the bread in his mouth and chewing thoughtfully.
“And?” Robert asked.
“Terribly sorry, mate. You know, they recommend you chew at least twenty three times. Bloody irritating, that.”
“Get on with it,” Robert snapped, “Who?”
“Dentists? I don’t---’
“Who took the job?” Robert demanded, “I’m not in the mood for your games, Eames.”
“The only person I could think of who'd have the balls...who'd be desperate enough, is Cobb.”
“Cobb?”
“I've worked with him before. He’s...too serious for me, but a pretty well respected man in the business.” Eames smiled, “If I can use that word.”
“Why would he be desperate enough to take a job -- if I can use the word -- like this?” Robert asked, sighing and holding up his hand to silence Eames when he saw the waiter approaching. They both declined on dessert, but accepted another glass of wine. It was their fourth, and while Eames was sure Robert had a man saddled outside to chauffeur them back safely, he did not enjoy the way the wine blunted the edges of his thoughts.
It was damn easy to get...confused in a situation like that.
“Well?” Robert pressed.
“Well, what?”
“Why would he be desperate enough to take this job? And who’s behind him?”
“You ask a lot of questions, Robert,” Eames said, giving the waiter a smile when he returned with their wine. When the man was gone, he looked to Robert, his eyes heavy-lidded, blurry with wine. Eames could hardly think of whether or not he had remembered to brush his teeth that morning, let alone who might have hired Cobb, or why he was so desperate. Inception was a difficult job, most would even say impossible. The man was putting a lot on the line, with very little chance of success.
Whatever fueled him had to be important, deeper than money and opportunity. As far as Eames knew, there was only one thing that made a man behave erratically and desperately besides money.
Love.
Love for what, or whom, was a mystery though.
“I expect answers when I ask a question,” Robert said, “I don't want you to be fooled by the dinners and the apartment and the other...extravagances that I give to you; You're completely at my disposal, Eames. If I find out you're keeping something from me---”
“Aw, pet, I wouldn't dream of lying to you," Eames purred, pouring Robert more wine before filling up his own glass. “It’s late, I’m tired, and I’m afraid I’m insufferable by nature. Might be best to just take me home and get me into bed.”
“You can get yourself into bed,” Robert murmured. He wanted to appear detached, perhaps a little icy, but his eyes were trained on the table and his cheeks were flushed. Only slightly, but bright enough for Eames to notice. “Plying someone with liquor seems to only be good for one thing,” Robert continued.
“And it’s not information,” Eames said. He sighed and scooted his glass away. “What do you say we just leave?” Eames asked, “I’m not--- I’d like to leave.”
“Fine," Robert said. He caught the attention of the waiter and waved him over. “Sleep it off. I need you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow morning.”
“Great,” Eames groaned, resting his face in his hands.
****
“The main thing you’re lacking is timing,” Eames explained. “Call it whatever you want -- tactical maneuver, self preservation -- it’s bloody difficult.”
Robert seemed, at best, disinterested with what Eames was saying. His head was tipped back, his eyes closed, his feet kicked up on the coffee table. Eames had never seen him so... Relaxed. It was aggravating to say the least. Robert had been hounding him to come up with a concrete plan, both to fight back against inception and perform their own successfully. Now that Eames was getting down to the nitty gritty, so to speak, Robert seemed...blasé about the whole thing.
“Robert?” Eames asked, and when Robert only sat there, Eames gripped his shoulder and shook him sharply. “Robert?”
“What?”
“You look knackered,” Eames said, “Sorry to trouble you with all the technical mumbo-jumbo, but this is what you kidnapped me to do.”
“Kidnapped," Robert laughed.
“Well, you didn't hire me,” Eames snapped, squeezing Robert’s shoulder a little tighter. He could feel just how thin and frail the man was, his bone sharp and vulnerable under Eames’ hand. It would have been easy to dislocate his shoulder if Eames wanted to, but he didn’t. That was the most aggravating thing, actually.
He didn’t want to.
“I’m listening to you,” Robert sighed, shrugging out of Eames’ hand. “I wasn't aware I had to look at you. Is your self-esteem that fragile?”
“No, but my patience is,” Eames said.
"The timing," Robert said. He sat forward and turned his eyes to Eames. Spending nearly every day with the man for the past two weeks had afforded Eames little defense against Robert's eyes. There was an unnatural power to them, something that was both cold and intensely hot. Eames looked away from him, no matter how much he had protested Robert's lack of interest. "The timing is simple," Robert continued, "We wait for them to make the first move. All I can do is defend myself to the best of my -- well, really, your ability -- and hope that I can fight them."
"It's not that simple," Eames argued, "If it were that simple, you wouldn't even need me. You're militarized, aren't you? To you, they're nothing more than...what? Viruses. Viruses that your body and mind will naturally fight off. You need me because..."
"You can't finish that sentence," Robert said, smiling coyly, pale blue eyes almost glinting, "And it scares the hell out of you."
Eames had a sudden desire to punch the man, to see if that smug smile of his would shatter along with his teeth. His hand fisted to do just that, but he restrained himself. It had nothing to do with any kind of professional loyalty; quite frankly, Eames would have knifed Robert and tossed him into the river with the promise of a Shepherd’s Pie. What did stay his hand was the promise of inception.
The word remained powerful for him.
“You need me because I’m damn good bait,” Eames said, and the way Robert flinched let him know that he was right. It felt good, bringing the man down a few pegs. Robert had likely convinced himself that he was too smart for a man like Eames to figure out. Too crafty for someone to ever catch hold of. He looked to Eames like a rabbit who had just gotten its foot caught in a trap. "Isn't that right, mate? I'm just a tasty morsel to lure whoever is behind this into the open."
"That's, that is completely---"
"True?" Eames asked, "Of course it is. Don't fret so, pet. It's so beneath you."
Robert's right hand curled into a fist. That, too, was beneath him, but Eames was intrigued by the idea that Robert could be so easily angered. He had never struck Eames as the violent sort... But every man had his breaking point, and it seemed Eames had nearly driven Robert to it.
Robert's face, so usually controlled and china-doll white, was brick red and furrowed in anger. He pushed himself up from the sofa and paced around the living room. Eames had never seen him so animated; he watched Robert with great amusement and interest.
"You think you know what I--- You don't know anything about what I'm doing. And that's the way it's supposed to be, you understand? I don't want you to be confused, Eames." Robert stopped, shoved his fingers through his hair, and snapped his head around to put his eyes on Eames. "You're entirely expendable. I brought you here to assist me, but if it turns out you can't..."
"You'll, what, kill me?" Eames asked, "I doubt that."
"Why?"
"Because you're a coward," Eames said, "You're a pretty little rich boy who's always had his way. I've heard your sob story a million times before. You've had everything you've ever wanted, but daddy never loved you. Never hugged you as a kid, or supported you. Blah blah blah. The thing is that you don't have the balls to do anything."
"I had the balls to come and find you," Robert snapped, "I had the balls to strong arm you into coming here with me. Believe me, Eames, I have the balls to do almost anything."
"Let's see, sweetheart," Eames purred.
"What are you talking about?"
"There's a pistol in your jacket," Eames said, his voice casual and without a hint of fear or uncertainty. "You carry it around everywhere you go. Probably because you're paranoid...most rich people are paranoid, yeah? Anyway, go ahead and use it. I'm expendable, aren't I? You have the balls don't you?"
"You haven't proven yourself incapable of assisting me," Robert said, visibly shaken. His hand trembled, and he hid it in the pocket of his jacket. "If you ever do...then I'll take you up on your generous offer."
Eames sat forward, frowning slightly. "I don't like when we fight, darling," he said, patting the cushion beside him. "Come on, let's not do this."
"There are two ways you can address me," Robert said coolly, though Eames noticed the hint of a blush on his face. It was likely he was flushed out of anger, but it was just as likely he was a bit sexually flustered by Eames' pet names. "Robert or Mr. Fischer," Robert continued, "I'm more partial to the latter."
"Seems awful formal," Eames said, "But alright. Mr. Fischer. I'm too hung over to argue with you. So let's just get back to what we were discussing."
"Fine. The timing. Like I said---"
"The team," Eames interrupted, "You explained the timing fairly well. I don't know what you've been told about me, Robert...probably some fancy rubbish, but I'm not capable of doing a job like this all on my own. We need a team...and I don't mean those boys you had with their semi-automatics. A team well trained with dream share."
"That's a matter for another time," Robert said, "The team comes when you have the opportunity to attempt inception for yourself. For now, you're my team, Eames, and I expect you to handle things. To...protect me."
Had Robert's flush deepened? It was hard to tell. Robert turned away from him and looked out the window. He watched the traffic crawl twenty stories below, and when he spoke his voice was softer. He seemed much more vulnerable. Eames couldn't understand him, couldn't trust him.
"You're right, though," Robert said, "About me. My father didn't hug me." Robert laughed, a touch bitterly if Eames were being honest, and shrugged. "Not that he's ever hugged anyone. But if you're thinking that...influenced me to be this way, you're wrong. I don't like being harassed, Mr. Eames, and that's just what's going on here. If these people wanted my money, I wouldn't fight them this hard. They want something more though, don't they?"
"It's not a kind of stealing," Eames said, "It's more like... Breaking and entering. But they leave something."
"That's even worse," Robert said, "It's...perverse."
"Watch your mouth, love, that's my bread and butter."
"No offense intended," Robert said, smiling at his own reflection in the window, "But you have to admit it's terribly invasive."
"Invasive and perverse are two different things," Eames said, "One man's obscenity is another man's art. Who said that?"
"Neil Gaiman, and don't change the subject," Robert said, "You're making excuses for the kind of work you do."
"Inception is a rare thing," Eames explained, "That's not really what I do."
"It's part of what you do."
"A small part," Eames defended, "Look, darling---"
"Robert," Robert interrupted, "Or Mr. Fischer."
"Look, Robert, if what I do is so perverse, why exactly am I here?"
"Do you know what a man does when he wants to catch a thief, Eames?"
"Buys himself a dog?"
"No," Robert said, "He finds another thief. That's what you do when you need to catch someone, you get someone who knows. Someone who has the same kind of experience."
"So I am bait," Eames said, sounding halfway between pissed and amused. "You could have spared me the riddle and just said so, darling."
"Bait is a harsh word," Robert said. "But I suppose you've earned the right to be a little harsh with me, Eames. You're more than that, though, if it's any consolation. You're a helpful man to have around, particularly in a matter like this."
"You do a lot of fancy talking for a man who deals in kidnapping and emotional blackmail, Mr. Fischer," Eames said, and he knew Robert could hear the venom in his voice from the way he flinched and shrunk away.
Not a Big Bad Wolf after all; Eames was glad to see it. Men were much easier to deal with when they were weak and backed into a corner. "I'm going to ask you something, and I want the truth. No lies, no bullshit, no conning. You can't con a con-man, Robert, and I want you to keep that in mind before you answer me."
"What is it?"
"After all of this is over -- not just the attack on you but my own little second chance at inception -- what are you planning on doing with me?" Eames watched Robert look away from him, and he had his answer. Still, he needed to hear it, he needed to know. "Are you going to kill me? What's the matter, afraid I'll look too closely at some top secret material? Afraid I'll go to the press and tell them how Robert Fischer, son of the Great and Powerful Maurice Fischer, consorts with hit men and mercenaries? Or are you just afraid of having someone know you, Robert, warts and all?"
"It's not like that," Robert defended. He sounded petulant, like a child whose favorite toy has been taken away from him. Or one whose been found with his hand in the cookie jar. "I don't want to hurt you. I never wanted that. I never wanted any of this, and you know that. But my hand is being forced, Eames, and I can't afford to have anyone know---"
"You think too much," Eames interrupted, pushing himself up from the sofa. His vision was still a bit blurry, his steps still a bit lumbering from his excess the previous evening, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. He crossed to where Robert stood, and for a moment - a moment even Robert didn't recognize - Robert shrank from him.
"Don't get too close," Robert warned, "I'm never caught unprepared, Eames, if you try to hurt me--"
Eames silenced Robert with a kiss. It was brief and soft, but it was enough to force the man to shut his mouth. "Let's make a deal," Eames murmured, "I'll do what I can to protect you from this boogeyman that's after you, and you won't get in my way once everything is settled. You let me go, understand, and I'm gone. No press, no dirty laundry, no skeletons getting yanked out of the closet. I'm a ghost Robert...and you're untouched."
"I can't trust you," Robert whispered. His words did not correspond with his body, which shifted closer to Eames.
"And I can't trust you," Eames said, "So we're even. I've been known to take a fellow at his word though, once or twice. We'll call it a gentleman's agreement."
"You'll keep your mouth shut?" Robert asked.
Eames pressed his lips together and mimed a key locking them together.
"A ghost," Robert said, studying Eames closely. After a few moments, he sighed, "Fine."
"Gentlemen tend to shake on these kinds of deals," Eames said.
"What do men like us do, then?" Robert asked.
Eames smiled, "I'll show you."
****
The one good thing about Robert was that he served as an excellent distraction; particularly when he was naked. Eames watched him sleep, though he tried to avoid being a total creep and hovering over the man. There was simply nothing else to watch, really, and Robert was damn pretty with his hair all sweaty and swept over his eyes and his cheeks flushed. It wasn't that Eames had been unable to resist the man, but that he had seen no point in resisting. There were certain things that he had to do, that he was compelled to do, and then there were things that he did just for the sake of doing them.
Robert was, of course, a member of the latter.
Eames couldn't say he didn't like the way Robert Fischer kissed and made love; that would be a lie. That didn't mean, however, that he had needed him. It had been one hell of a nice way to spend an afternoon; that was the most Eames could say about it.
With Robert sleeping, and his own mind hazy at best, Eames thought some on what lay ahead of him. He wasn't concerned about the job with Fischer, or who might be behind it, he was more concerned about his own chance to try inception. He had told Robert that he had the opportunity once before and he had blown it -- but that was only half true. The truth of the matter was, Eames hadn't had the stomach or the experience for what inception really entailed, and he was worried that he might still be without the proper resources.
Namely, the ability to throw his moral compass in the trash. It was almost laughable to think that Eames could possess any kind of strong moral fiber, but he was only human. There were certain things that gave him pause, and there were certain things that he knew were just plain rotten. Inception was one of those things -- sneaking through someone’s mind, turning their own thoughts into time-bombs that would either explode and be the death of them, or simply sit there ticking forever.
He had never been particularly sentimental or empathetic, but even he could see that there was something horribly wrong with inception. Even still, he had accepted Robert's proposal. Granted, he had had guns pointed at him by three very brutish men, but the point was he wanted to try again. Ego, vanity, no matter what the reason was, he had the desire for it.
Eames had always been terrible at denying himself the things he desired, no matter how morally ambiguous.
As far as the job on Fischer went, there wasn't much to be done. They lacked the resources and the knowledge to construct any kind of preemptive strike, and Robert seemed content to lay in wait for his pursuers. Eames had told the man that he thought the man coming after him might be Cobb, but there was no way to know for sure. Cobb had always been the kind of man to seize an opportunity when he saw one, but Eames had never known him to be reckless.
That was why he was there though, beyond his supposed skill and talent. Eames was bait to draw out the people who wanted to wend their way through Fischer's subconscious. Humility had never been Eames' strong suit -- he knew that he was damn good at what he did, and any team without him on board would be piss poor at best, and possibly hazardous at worst.
They would come for him, eventually, whoever they were.
In the meantime, Eames watched Robert, pushing back his hair from his forehead and looking at his pretty face. That face was deceptive, Eames knew. Robert was a crafty, scheming son of a bitch, and Eames doubted he would hesitate to dispose of him if it suited his interests.
It was almost something to be proud of.
Part Two>>>
Author: darkseraphim21
Artist: ruins_of_sodom
Word Count: 9,759 (Part One), 16,965 (total)
Rating: R
Pairing: Eames/Robert
Warnings: Mild sexual content, nudity, adult language, violence, character death(s)
Summary: "Recruited" by Robert to form a counter-offense against inception and the team behind it, Eames finds himself biting off more than he can chew with his feisty new employer. While Cobb and his team prepare for their inception on Robert, Eames and Fischer find themselves testing the boundaries of their complicated relationship. Used to getting a job done, quickly and efficiently, Eames is disturbed by just how much he wants to protect Robert.
Art is embedded, but please do check it out at ruins_of_sodom's journal.
First and foremost I want to give much love, appreciation and heaps of adoration to ruins_of_sodom, not only for his amazing artwork,but for his tireless assistance in actually making this story possible. He's an incredible friend to ping ideas off of, and most of the time, he's my brain when my own brain is full of mush. So thanks to Dan for being such an inspiration, incredible sounding board, and the kick in the ass I needed to get this story finished. Seriously, bb, if I had the time and resources, I'd be building a shrine in your honor.
I also want to thank kick_back_80s for their fabulous betaing job! :D
__________________________________________________________________
Breaking and Entering
Mombasa, Kenya
Eames stared through the smoke and into his opponent’s eyes. Sweat rolled down the center of his back and down his brow, stinging in his right eye. He blinked it away absently, not allowing his opponent to see what could be mistaken for any kind of weakness.
“Show ‘em,” the man across from him grunted, blowing smoke from his nostrils and flicking his cigarette into the ashtray between them.
Eames laid his cards on the table. “Full house,” he said, “Sorry, mate. Rough luck.”
He reached for the money crumpled on the table, but was stopped by a heavy, emphysemic laugh. “Ah-ah,” the man chided, fanning his cards out. “Four sevens.”
The man had cheated, of course. Eames couldn't pretend he was upset, after all, he had cheated too. The problem was he hadn’t cheated enough.
He had been out cheated.
It was an unusual turn of events, and Eames wasn't really sure how to handle the situation. He supposed he could have snatched the money and ran off; he could probably make it about ten feet before the man and his ‘friends’ shot him in the back.
But it wasn't about the money. The money had never been the point.
It was about winning.
“Another game, friend?” The man asked, smiling wryly.
“I think I’ll pass,” Eames said, tucking a cigarette into the corner of his mouth and standing from the table. He lit his smoke and exhaled slowly. “Think I've lost enough of my money for one night.”
The man looked up, and Eames caught a dangerous flash in his eye. He had been stupid not to notice it earlier. Now that he had though, what could he do about it? The men who flanked the man were nothing terribly imposing, but Eames could see the shape of guns under their jackets. Semi-automatic, if he knew anything about weapons.
“Right, well, I’m buggered,” Eames said, looking between the man and his companions. “Night all.”
The man nodded, smiling his same wry smile. His pale eyes looked empty to Eames, as though he had been drained completely. Eames felt like he was looking at a corpse, and a small shiver worked up his spine.
What the hell was wrong with him? He was getting worked up over some shyster and his ridiculous entourage. The men would be fools to attack him openly; Mombasa was not the height of social justice, but there would still be a consequence for gunning him down. Besides which, what would the men want with him anyway? He was no one important, no one that they would bother themselves with. They had guns on them, who the hell didn’t?
Eames backed away from the table, watching the men carefully. He wanted to appear normal, like he hadn't noticed the guns or the man's pale, dead eyes. Then again, he didn't want to give them an opportunity to turn him into mince meat. The thought of his own unimportance did little to calm him when he was so sure he would turn and feel bullets rip into his back.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Eames?” The man asked
“No, no,” Eames said, shaking his head with a bit too much vehemence. “No problem.”
“Goodnight, then.”
“Right, goodnight,” Eames said, quickly turning and walking to the front door. His cigarette smoldered in his fingers, and when he was outside he pitched it into the street. There was a swampy feeling to the air, clinging to him like a second skin. He was obviously jumping at shadows, behaving erratically; it was so unlike him.
He hoofed over to his apartment, hardly five minutes from the bar; it felt more like five years to Eames, moving through the hot Mombasa air. It clung to him like tar, and he shrugged himself out of his over-shirt as he walked, tossing it over his shoulder.
Eames refused to look over his shoulder, refused to give in to paranoia. Because that was surely what it was: paranoia. There was no one following him, there was no reason to feel as though he were being stalked through the night. After all, what reason did the man and his goons have to chase after him? He had paid them their money.
A part of Eames hoped the men would come. He had never been one to beg for a fight, but he had also never been the type to refuse a fight. His blood was pumping, and he thought if the men did come, he would be able to take at least one of them down before he was slaughtered.
It was a wonderfully romantic way to die: swinging. Eames smiled as he climbed the rickety stairs to his apartment. ‘Apartment’ was being incredibly kind, where Eames lived -- actually, ‘lived’ was being kind as well -- was nothing more than a studio. He had enough room for a small sofa, a fridge, and a television set. Oh, and a rather handsome leather chair that faced the apartment's one small window. He was fond of that chair, loved to run his fingers over it...
Eames was beginning to think he needed a woman.
He knew the moment he entered the room that he wasn't alone. He could feel someone in the darkness with him, he could smell the spiciness of some expensive cologne. Eames held his breath and pressed himself against the wall, though he knew it would be no good. The person had already heard him enter. There was no hiding.
Eames debated between charging the room blindly and running away. But he couldn’t, running had never been in his blood. As it turned out, he was given no opportunity to do either.
“Good evening, Mr. Eames,” a smooth, cultured voice said from the shadows. The man in the darkness seemed perfectly at ease, but of course, he hadn’t had his home broken into. “I was wondering if we could speak for a few minutes. I know it’s dreadfully late, but...Once you hear what I have to say, you might not mind our...unorthodox meeting.”
“Bloody unorthodox,” Eames snapped, “That’s putting it mildly, eh? Who the hell are you? What do you want?”
There was a small chuckle, and the slight noise of fabric shifting against skin. Eames listened, intently, and then leapt at the intruder, catching the man around his middle. His slender middle, as it turned out. What kind of man, probably weighing one hundred and forty pounds soaking wet, broke into someones home and waited for them? Without any kind of protection?
“Mr. Eames,” the man whispered, and Eames could feel his breath against his throat, “I’m aware that you're a passionate man, but there will be time in the future to ravage me, if you like.”
“You’re really starting to piss me off, mate,” Eames grunted, “Who the fuck are you?”
“Names are so trivial, really.”
“Well, you know mine,” Eames said, “Let’s make it even.”
The man sighed, his breath once more hot and heavy on Eames’ neck. “My name is Robert Fischer,” the man said, “Does that satisfy you, Mr. Eames?”
“No,” Eames said, “Keep talking.”
“It’s difficult to talk in this position,” Robert murmured, “Could you let me go? If you believe I intend to harm you, you're mistaken. Had I wanted to, I would have. You would be dead if that was why I was here.”
The man had a point. Not a point that Eames was particularly thrilled to hear, but still. Eames released Robert, backing up from him slowly.
“Do you know about dream share, Mr. Eames?”
What the fuck?
The man was obviously from Cobol, but why would an agent be hunting him? Probably something to do with Cobb, that dim arsehole. Eames kept his composure, but just barely.
“Who sent you?” Eames asked.
Robert laughed. There was something in that laugh that irritated Eames, the smugness perhaps. Or maybe it was the fact that it was a laugh that a man offered a slow, dimwitted child. You don’t understand, that laugh said, But it’s not your fault.
“I sent me,” Robert explained, “I’m curious about you. From what I’ve heard, there’s no one better in the business at...what you do. I've been assembling a little team to attempt a...tactical maneuver, if the phrase means anything to you. Call it a practice in self preservation.”
“I'd suggest you start making sense soon, Mr. Fischer,” Eames said, “I don't have all bloody night.”
“Actually, you do,” Robert said, “But I see your point. Let me make this as simple as possible. It’s come to my attention that I may be under...scrutiny. I can't tell why, but the reason doesn't matter. I’m in need of some counter-offense.”
“Why would someone be interested in you?”
“Plenty of reasons, all of them boring,” Robert said. “As I said before, the reason doesn't matter. What matters is not allowing them the opportunity. I need someone of your skill to put a stop to it.”
“What could I do?” Eames asked. “If you're talking about dream share, there’s not a whole lot that---”
“Inception,” Robert said, and Eames forgot, for a moment, how to breathe. The word held a frightening kind of power over Eames; that power was hypnotic, damn alluring. When he thought of inception, Eames’ gut was twisted. Angry, lustful... He knew that inception existed, but he had never known it to really work.
It hadn't worked for him.
“Inception,” Eames repeated, “Are you daft? What in God’s--- I can understand counter-offensive, but you're talking full blown nuclear war. Bollocks.”
“Can it be done?” Robert asked, ignoring Eames’ protests.
If he were going to discuss such things with a total stranger, he at least needed to see the man's face. There was only so much he could gauge about Robert Fischer through his voice. If he could see his eyes, get a good look at them, Eames was sure he could understand more about him.
Eames flicked on the small lamp by the window, fumbling for a few moments before his room was filled with warm, slightly dim light. He stared at Robert for what could have only been a few seconds, but what felt to Eames to be an interminable length of time.
Robert was young, that was the first thing Eames noticed. Mid-thirties, if Eames had to guess. His bone structure was...unique. That was the only way Eames could think to describe it. Delicate features, but masculine contour. His jaw was broad, his eyelids were heavy, his nose was hawkish, but his lips were soft and his eyelashes were thick and curled.
His eyes were an unnatural, startling blue. Eames had never seen eyes so blue. Unnaturally haunting, but unnaturally beautiful if Eames was being honest.
“Can it be done or not, Mr. Eames?” Robert asked, “I'd hate to hear I spent fourteen hours on a plane just to find out I’ve wasted my time.”
Eames dropped himself into his chair, stroking his fingers lovingly over the leather. It was a comfort to him, though he must have looked strange to Robert. “You're talking about something that you don't even understand,” Eames said. “You might as well come here and ask me about slaying dragons, Mr. Fischer--”
“I think you’re lying to me, Mr. Eames,” Robert said.
Eames heard the men enter his room before he saw their shadows stretch across his wall. He knew who they were, and refused to stand and meet them. The men he had played against earlier that night.
He hadn't been paranoid after all. In some ways, that made Eames feel better. He felt as good as a man could when faced with certain death.
“Did you really think I would come here without an insurance policy, Mr. Eames?” Robert asked.
“Mr. Eames is my father,” Eames said dryly, smiling at them man humorlessly. “Drop the mister, eh?”
“There’s something you're not telling me,” Robert said, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. “Eames. I have it on good authority that you know something about inception. That you have experience.”
“Who've you been talking to?”
“My contacts are my business,” Robert said, crossly. He sighed, and his face and voice softened. “Listen to me, Eames,” he said, “I want to do this as diplomatically as possible. I don't want to hurt you, I don't want my associates here to hurt you. But you need to level with me, Eames, you need to tell me what you know.” Those blue eyes looked at him, deep and lovely; “Please,” Robert said.
Eames looked away from Robert, not liking the way those eyes melted him. He had always been the one breaking people, the one forcing them to crumble and spill their guts, to give up their most guarded secrets. It seemed unjust that Robert would overpower him so easily.
“It was a total failure,” Eames said, “I tried it before. Tried to go down deep, three levels. The team was too inexperienced. The whole thing was...completely fucked. Someone was trained, but it wasn’t us. The fucker was militarized, and fucking hard. I figured it wasn't possible, but---”
“But?” Robert asked, poking and prodding in just the right tone. Soft, patient, infinitely tender. Eames knew when he was being guided, and it pissed him off that he was allowing it.
“It could be done,” Eames said, looking back at Robert, “Could be. With the right team, the right finesse, the right approach. If we’d had more time to prepare, more time to get to know who we were doing it on.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Eames, but getting to know that target is your job.”
Eames said nothing.
“Was it the failure of your team, or your failure?” Robert asked, “Be straight with me, Eames.”
“It was my fault,” Eames snapped, “Are you fucking satisfied?”
“Were you young?”
“I was born old,” Eames said, “Didn't you know that? I came from the bleeding womb like this.”
“How young, Eames?” Robert prodded.
“Seven years ago,” Eames said, “Not young, but as far as being mentally prepared. I was a goddamn kid.”
Robert walked over to where Eames sat and knelt before him. It would have been easy for Eames to take Robert by the throat and strangle the life out of him. But he knew if he even flinched a muscle, the men stationed behind him would open fire. They’d probably end up turning him and Robert into mince meat, but Eames didn't doubt they'd do it all the same.
Robert, had, after all, come prepared. Possibly even prepared to die.
“You strike me as the kind of man who knows a good opportunity when he sees one,” Robert said, “Also, you seem the type who would want to redeem himself. I’m giving you another chance.”
“At what, exactly?” Eames asked.
“Inception,” Robert said, and Eames felt that same shiver run through his body. “I’ve been told you're the best, and that any team I build without you won't be worth anything. I always get what I want, Eames, one way or another.”
“Which means I don't have a choice here,” Eames said, looking into Robert’s eyes. He expected the man to blink first, or look away, but Robert stared back at him impassively. For such a small, meek looking man, he had balls. Eames could respect that, even if he wasn't fond of Robert’s methods. Not when they were used on him anyhow.
“You're as clever as they said," Robert said, smiling. “Will you come willingly? I'd hate for things to get messy.”
What could he do? If he moved so much as an inch, he would be shredded with bullets. He had no doubt that the men stationed behind him wouldn’t hesitate to unload on him. They were probably looking forward to it.
Inception had haunted him for years; haunted and seduced him. Eames thought it could be possible, with the right team and the right preparation. There would have to be intense care given to detail and planning. Looking at Robert, Eames couldn’t imagine he would hand over the reins willingly. He seemed to enjoy being in control. Eames, however, had never been an easy beast to tame.
“Fine,” Eames agreed. “Is this the part where you tie me up?”
“No,” Robert said. “That comes later.”
****
Sydney, Australia
Eames hadn’t expected Robert to spoil him so lavishly. The flat he was provided could fit his tiny room in Mombasa within it several times over. He almost lost himself there the first night, and he had only been stumbling to the bathroom for a piss.
He listened to Robert talk about his father’s failing health, and the fate of his business. Eames listened to him, but not with as much attentiveness as Robert apparently desired, because the man grabbed his face -- like he were a small child -- and forced their eyes to meet.
“I’m aware that most of this information might seem trivial to you, Eames. But it’s important. If it weren't important, I wouldn't have come to you, and I wouldn't be fighting against people I don't even know. So do me a favor and listen. That is what you do, isn't it? You watch and you listen.”
“Typically I know what the fuck I’m listening for,” Eames murmured.
“That’s bullshit,” Robert snapped. It was the first time Eames had seen his composure slip, the first time he had seen those blue eyes sharpen. “The job you do, you go in completely blind. You don't know what you're looking for until you find it. Don't insult my intelligence, Eames. I’m not a stupid man.”
Eames leaned back his chair, resting his face in his palm. It wasn't an invitation for Robert to continue, but Robert took it as one regardless.
Eames could tell a great many things from watching the man, and from listening to him. He loved to posture, to flaunt his status and his money. He loved to appear confident, always in control, on top of things. These were things he had probably learned from his father, the things that he probably resented in the man; the things Robert Fischer would see in himself when he was strong enough and courageous enough to face them.
Beneath all of that, Eames saw nothing more than a frightened little boy. He did not imagine that frailty to make Robert seem less imposing, or his threats less real; the truth was there in Robert’s eyes.
“I don’t know who these people are who are coming after me,” Robert explained, “But I can only guess it has something to do with Fischer-Morrow.”
“Why not come after your father, then?” Eames asked, “He’s the head honcho around here, isn’t he? The Big Kahuna, if that pleases you. You're second fiddle. Or not even. Third? Your father is dying, if they were after the company, they'd just sit on their hands. Let him die, unless they--- Never mind.”
“What?” Robert asked, “Unless they what?”
“The whole point of inception is to plant an idea. Subtly. To never let the person know that the idea isn't their own. If the idea is related to, what was it, Fischer-Morrow? If it’s meant for you...someone isn’t happy about the thought of you taking the helm from your father.”
“Why?” Robert asked, composure slipping away more and more. He looked harried, flustered, without a single idea in his pretty little head. Eames rather liked him that way. “If, they, these people...if they wanted the company to fail, my taking over would be just what they wanted.”
“I don't really understand you, Robert,” Eames said, “You parade around like the King of the Castle, but then you sit there and tell me you don't even know if you can run a company. I wonder if you ever thought you could resort to kidnapping? You did alright with that.”
“It wasn't kidnapping,” Robert defended, but he would not meet Eames’ eyes. “It was...strategic. I convinced you to come along with me, Eames, that’s hardly kidnapping.”
“With guns," Eames said, chuckling when Robert flushed, “Hardly diplomatic of you, but then again, you also blackmailed me. With my own ego. That was a bloody strategic thing to do.”
“You don't sound as pissed as I expected you to,” Robert said.
“Why would I be?” Eames asked, standing and crossing to the minibar beside the bed. He rummaged around for a few moments before turning with two small bottles of vodka. “Can't tell you I was living the high-life, mate. I've taken worse jobs than this, and with less...benefits.”
“I trust you're referring to the apartment,” Robert said, watching Eames as he crossed the floor with the small bottles clinking in his hand. The only answer Eames gave him was a smile and a little wink before he sank into the chair and handed Robert one of the bottles.
“A little early in the morning to be drinking,” Robert said.
“A little early in the morning to be working, too,” Eames murmured. He unscrewed the cap and stuck the bottle out, inviting Robert to join him. “To...what would you say, Robert?”
“To...success," Robert said, “And an unusual partnership.”
“Cheers,” Eames laughed, clinking his bottle against Robert’s.
****
Mombasa, Kenya
Cobb rechecked his notes for the hundredth time, wiping sweat off his brow as he looked at the address scratched in his messy handwriting. This was the place, no doubt about it. Eames would be inside, on the third floor. The bar he had visited earlier had been a bust; no one had seen Eames for at least a week, even though it had reputedly been one of his regular haunts.
Cobb had a sinking feeling in his gut, though he couldn't explain why. Even if Eames weren't there, that didn't mean something had happened to him. Eames had always been a bit of a drifter, moving from place to place, living under assumed names. Cobb had always thought the man meant to protect himself with his behavior, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized Eames only enjoyed the game.
There was something seductive about the lifestyle for Eames. No one really knew him. He was a chameleon, becoming whoever he pleased with very little effort. It was his job, after all, but Cobb thought it went deeper than that. It had not been the job of forging that had changed Eames into a perfect chameleon, rather Eames had been attracted to the job because of his “talents.”
He wasn't sure why he was standing there thinking about why Eames did what he did, and why he might have taken off. It was a hundred and fourteen degrees, he was sweating like a hog, and he hadn't even checked Eames’ apartment.
Sighing and tucking his notes into his back pocket, Cobb moved inside and made his way to the third floor.
Eames’ apartment was unlocked, not a terrific sign, but not a terrible omen as his gut seemed to insist with its churning and knotting. Cobb pushed inside and looked around the small space, seeing nothing out of place. If Eames was gone, it was obviously of his own volition. Cobb could find no signs of a struggle, no sign that Eames had been taken by...
That was the problem, Cobb had no idea who would harm or abduct Eames. The man was more than a chameleon, he was a ghost when he needed to be. He could more than be whoever he wanted to be; he could be no one at all.
Eames wasn't there.
There was no use searching the place. Quite honestly, there's wasn’t much “place” to search. Cobb did find a rather strange note on Eames end-table, however; it read simply Gone Fishing.
Whatever that meant.
****
Sydney, Australia
“You're talking about doing more than stopping inception,” Eames said, studying Robert as he twirled spaghetti around his fork. It was amazing, really. Robert was the only man Eames had ever known who could eat spaghetti without getting an ounce of sauce on his chin. Eames was fairly sure that meant the man was some kind of warlock.
“I’m talking about a reversal,” Robert agreed, dabbing his mouth with a napkin -- though he needn't have bothered -- and taking a small sip of wine. “I have my sources, Eames, and I've heard that whoever is coming after me is well trained with dream share. But not with inception. Any team they assemble will be crippled without you. I’m suggesting you...catch them in their own trap.”
“Trap them there,” Eames said, honestly spell bound by Robert’s cunning and complete disregard for ethics and human suffering. Eames was a little turned on by the attitude, and he showed Robert this with his smile. “You really are a cheeky bastard, Robert. You realize that if they're trapped there...if they don't ride the kick...they’ll be there for years. Decades. I want you to understand what that means.”
“I understand,” Robert said, pale eyes unflinching, “Their minds will age, their souls if you want to get poetic. They’ll wake up here, eventually, and their bodies will be the same. But inside they’ll know that they're ancient. It’s a cruel thing to do to a person. Almost inhuman.”
“But?” Eames asked.
“But I don't care,” Robert said, looking at Eames as though he meant to gauge his reaction, “I never asked to be pursued in this way, you understand. I never asked to be the target of their perverse little experiment. But I am, and that’s their mistake. This is war, Eames. Something tells me you're familiar with the concept.”
“I am,” Eames said, looking around the restaurant as though he suspected someone might swoop down on them. It was an irrational fear, but it was there, clawing at him all the same.
“I’ve been thinking of all the people I know who're ballsy enough to take a stab at a job like this,” Eames continued, pausing to tear off a piece of bread and run it through the marinara sauce on his plate. He could see Robert was anxious for him to continue, and he smiled before popping the bread in his mouth and chewing thoughtfully.
“And?” Robert asked.
“Terribly sorry, mate. You know, they recommend you chew at least twenty three times. Bloody irritating, that.”
“Get on with it,” Robert snapped, “Who?”
“Dentists? I don’t---’
“Who took the job?” Robert demanded, “I’m not in the mood for your games, Eames.”
“The only person I could think of who'd have the balls...who'd be desperate enough, is Cobb.”
“Cobb?”
“I've worked with him before. He’s...too serious for me, but a pretty well respected man in the business.” Eames smiled, “If I can use that word.”
“Why would he be desperate enough to take a job -- if I can use the word -- like this?” Robert asked, sighing and holding up his hand to silence Eames when he saw the waiter approaching. They both declined on dessert, but accepted another glass of wine. It was their fourth, and while Eames was sure Robert had a man saddled outside to chauffeur them back safely, he did not enjoy the way the wine blunted the edges of his thoughts.
It was damn easy to get...confused in a situation like that.
“Well?” Robert pressed.
“Well, what?”
“Why would he be desperate enough to take this job? And who’s behind him?”
“You ask a lot of questions, Robert,” Eames said, giving the waiter a smile when he returned with their wine. When the man was gone, he looked to Robert, his eyes heavy-lidded, blurry with wine. Eames could hardly think of whether or not he had remembered to brush his teeth that morning, let alone who might have hired Cobb, or why he was so desperate. Inception was a difficult job, most would even say impossible. The man was putting a lot on the line, with very little chance of success.
Whatever fueled him had to be important, deeper than money and opportunity. As far as Eames knew, there was only one thing that made a man behave erratically and desperately besides money.
Love.
Love for what, or whom, was a mystery though.
“I expect answers when I ask a question,” Robert said, “I don't want you to be fooled by the dinners and the apartment and the other...extravagances that I give to you; You're completely at my disposal, Eames. If I find out you're keeping something from me---”
“Aw, pet, I wouldn't dream of lying to you," Eames purred, pouring Robert more wine before filling up his own glass. “It’s late, I’m tired, and I’m afraid I’m insufferable by nature. Might be best to just take me home and get me into bed.”
“You can get yourself into bed,” Robert murmured. He wanted to appear detached, perhaps a little icy, but his eyes were trained on the table and his cheeks were flushed. Only slightly, but bright enough for Eames to notice. “Plying someone with liquor seems to only be good for one thing,” Robert continued.
“And it’s not information,” Eames said. He sighed and scooted his glass away. “What do you say we just leave?” Eames asked, “I’m not--- I’d like to leave.”
“Fine," Robert said. He caught the attention of the waiter and waved him over. “Sleep it off. I need you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow morning.”
“Great,” Eames groaned, resting his face in his hands.
****
“The main thing you’re lacking is timing,” Eames explained. “Call it whatever you want -- tactical maneuver, self preservation -- it’s bloody difficult.”
Robert seemed, at best, disinterested with what Eames was saying. His head was tipped back, his eyes closed, his feet kicked up on the coffee table. Eames had never seen him so... Relaxed. It was aggravating to say the least. Robert had been hounding him to come up with a concrete plan, both to fight back against inception and perform their own successfully. Now that Eames was getting down to the nitty gritty, so to speak, Robert seemed...blasé about the whole thing.
“Robert?” Eames asked, and when Robert only sat there, Eames gripped his shoulder and shook him sharply. “Robert?”
“What?”
“You look knackered,” Eames said, “Sorry to trouble you with all the technical mumbo-jumbo, but this is what you kidnapped me to do.”
“Kidnapped," Robert laughed.
“Well, you didn't hire me,” Eames snapped, squeezing Robert’s shoulder a little tighter. He could feel just how thin and frail the man was, his bone sharp and vulnerable under Eames’ hand. It would have been easy to dislocate his shoulder if Eames wanted to, but he didn’t. That was the most aggravating thing, actually.
He didn’t want to.
“I’m listening to you,” Robert sighed, shrugging out of Eames’ hand. “I wasn't aware I had to look at you. Is your self-esteem that fragile?”
“No, but my patience is,” Eames said.
"The timing," Robert said. He sat forward and turned his eyes to Eames. Spending nearly every day with the man for the past two weeks had afforded Eames little defense against Robert's eyes. There was an unnatural power to them, something that was both cold and intensely hot. Eames looked away from him, no matter how much he had protested Robert's lack of interest. "The timing is simple," Robert continued, "We wait for them to make the first move. All I can do is defend myself to the best of my -- well, really, your ability -- and hope that I can fight them."
"It's not that simple," Eames argued, "If it were that simple, you wouldn't even need me. You're militarized, aren't you? To you, they're nothing more than...what? Viruses. Viruses that your body and mind will naturally fight off. You need me because..."
"You can't finish that sentence," Robert said, smiling coyly, pale blue eyes almost glinting, "And it scares the hell out of you."
Eames had a sudden desire to punch the man, to see if that smug smile of his would shatter along with his teeth. His hand fisted to do just that, but he restrained himself. It had nothing to do with any kind of professional loyalty; quite frankly, Eames would have knifed Robert and tossed him into the river with the promise of a Shepherd’s Pie. What did stay his hand was the promise of inception.
The word remained powerful for him.
“You need me because I’m damn good bait,” Eames said, and the way Robert flinched let him know that he was right. It felt good, bringing the man down a few pegs. Robert had likely convinced himself that he was too smart for a man like Eames to figure out. Too crafty for someone to ever catch hold of. He looked to Eames like a rabbit who had just gotten its foot caught in a trap. "Isn't that right, mate? I'm just a tasty morsel to lure whoever is behind this into the open."
"That's, that is completely---"
"True?" Eames asked, "Of course it is. Don't fret so, pet. It's so beneath you."
Robert's right hand curled into a fist. That, too, was beneath him, but Eames was intrigued by the idea that Robert could be so easily angered. He had never struck Eames as the violent sort... But every man had his breaking point, and it seemed Eames had nearly driven Robert to it.
Robert's face, so usually controlled and china-doll white, was brick red and furrowed in anger. He pushed himself up from the sofa and paced around the living room. Eames had never seen him so animated; he watched Robert with great amusement and interest.
"You think you know what I--- You don't know anything about what I'm doing. And that's the way it's supposed to be, you understand? I don't want you to be confused, Eames." Robert stopped, shoved his fingers through his hair, and snapped his head around to put his eyes on Eames. "You're entirely expendable. I brought you here to assist me, but if it turns out you can't..."
"You'll, what, kill me?" Eames asked, "I doubt that."
"Why?"
"Because you're a coward," Eames said, "You're a pretty little rich boy who's always had his way. I've heard your sob story a million times before. You've had everything you've ever wanted, but daddy never loved you. Never hugged you as a kid, or supported you. Blah blah blah. The thing is that you don't have the balls to do anything."
"I had the balls to come and find you," Robert snapped, "I had the balls to strong arm you into coming here with me. Believe me, Eames, I have the balls to do almost anything."
"Let's see, sweetheart," Eames purred.
"What are you talking about?"
"There's a pistol in your jacket," Eames said, his voice casual and without a hint of fear or uncertainty. "You carry it around everywhere you go. Probably because you're paranoid...most rich people are paranoid, yeah? Anyway, go ahead and use it. I'm expendable, aren't I? You have the balls don't you?"
"You haven't proven yourself incapable of assisting me," Robert said, visibly shaken. His hand trembled, and he hid it in the pocket of his jacket. "If you ever do...then I'll take you up on your generous offer."
Eames sat forward, frowning slightly. "I don't like when we fight, darling," he said, patting the cushion beside him. "Come on, let's not do this."
"There are two ways you can address me," Robert said coolly, though Eames noticed the hint of a blush on his face. It was likely he was flushed out of anger, but it was just as likely he was a bit sexually flustered by Eames' pet names. "Robert or Mr. Fischer," Robert continued, "I'm more partial to the latter."
"Seems awful formal," Eames said, "But alright. Mr. Fischer. I'm too hung over to argue with you. So let's just get back to what we were discussing."
"Fine. The timing. Like I said---"
"The team," Eames interrupted, "You explained the timing fairly well. I don't know what you've been told about me, Robert...probably some fancy rubbish, but I'm not capable of doing a job like this all on my own. We need a team...and I don't mean those boys you had with their semi-automatics. A team well trained with dream share."
"That's a matter for another time," Robert said, "The team comes when you have the opportunity to attempt inception for yourself. For now, you're my team, Eames, and I expect you to handle things. To...protect me."
Had Robert's flush deepened? It was hard to tell. Robert turned away from him and looked out the window. He watched the traffic crawl twenty stories below, and when he spoke his voice was softer. He seemed much more vulnerable. Eames couldn't understand him, couldn't trust him.
"You're right, though," Robert said, "About me. My father didn't hug me." Robert laughed, a touch bitterly if Eames were being honest, and shrugged. "Not that he's ever hugged anyone. But if you're thinking that...influenced me to be this way, you're wrong. I don't like being harassed, Mr. Eames, and that's just what's going on here. If these people wanted my money, I wouldn't fight them this hard. They want something more though, don't they?"
"It's not a kind of stealing," Eames said, "It's more like... Breaking and entering. But they leave something."
"That's even worse," Robert said, "It's...perverse."
"Watch your mouth, love, that's my bread and butter."
"No offense intended," Robert said, smiling at his own reflection in the window, "But you have to admit it's terribly invasive."
"Invasive and perverse are two different things," Eames said, "One man's obscenity is another man's art. Who said that?"
"Neil Gaiman, and don't change the subject," Robert said, "You're making excuses for the kind of work you do."
"Inception is a rare thing," Eames explained, "That's not really what I do."
"It's part of what you do."
"A small part," Eames defended, "Look, darling---"
"Robert," Robert interrupted, "Or Mr. Fischer."
"Look, Robert, if what I do is so perverse, why exactly am I here?"
"Do you know what a man does when he wants to catch a thief, Eames?"
"Buys himself a dog?"
"No," Robert said, "He finds another thief. That's what you do when you need to catch someone, you get someone who knows. Someone who has the same kind of experience."
"So I am bait," Eames said, sounding halfway between pissed and amused. "You could have spared me the riddle and just said so, darling."
"Bait is a harsh word," Robert said. "But I suppose you've earned the right to be a little harsh with me, Eames. You're more than that, though, if it's any consolation. You're a helpful man to have around, particularly in a matter like this."
"You do a lot of fancy talking for a man who deals in kidnapping and emotional blackmail, Mr. Fischer," Eames said, and he knew Robert could hear the venom in his voice from the way he flinched and shrunk away.
Not a Big Bad Wolf after all; Eames was glad to see it. Men were much easier to deal with when they were weak and backed into a corner. "I'm going to ask you something, and I want the truth. No lies, no bullshit, no conning. You can't con a con-man, Robert, and I want you to keep that in mind before you answer me."
"What is it?"
"After all of this is over -- not just the attack on you but my own little second chance at inception -- what are you planning on doing with me?" Eames watched Robert look away from him, and he had his answer. Still, he needed to hear it, he needed to know. "Are you going to kill me? What's the matter, afraid I'll look too closely at some top secret material? Afraid I'll go to the press and tell them how Robert Fischer, son of the Great and Powerful Maurice Fischer, consorts with hit men and mercenaries? Or are you just afraid of having someone know you, Robert, warts and all?"
"It's not like that," Robert defended. He sounded petulant, like a child whose favorite toy has been taken away from him. Or one whose been found with his hand in the cookie jar. "I don't want to hurt you. I never wanted that. I never wanted any of this, and you know that. But my hand is being forced, Eames, and I can't afford to have anyone know---"
"You think too much," Eames interrupted, pushing himself up from the sofa. His vision was still a bit blurry, his steps still a bit lumbering from his excess the previous evening, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. He crossed to where Robert stood, and for a moment - a moment even Robert didn't recognize - Robert shrank from him.
"Don't get too close," Robert warned, "I'm never caught unprepared, Eames, if you try to hurt me--"
Eames silenced Robert with a kiss. It was brief and soft, but it was enough to force the man to shut his mouth. "Let's make a deal," Eames murmured, "I'll do what I can to protect you from this boogeyman that's after you, and you won't get in my way once everything is settled. You let me go, understand, and I'm gone. No press, no dirty laundry, no skeletons getting yanked out of the closet. I'm a ghost Robert...and you're untouched."
"I can't trust you," Robert whispered. His words did not correspond with his body, which shifted closer to Eames.
"And I can't trust you," Eames said, "So we're even. I've been known to take a fellow at his word though, once or twice. We'll call it a gentleman's agreement."
"You'll keep your mouth shut?" Robert asked.
Eames pressed his lips together and mimed a key locking them together.
"A ghost," Robert said, studying Eames closely. After a few moments, he sighed, "Fine."
"Gentlemen tend to shake on these kinds of deals," Eames said.
"What do men like us do, then?" Robert asked.
Eames smiled, "I'll show you."
****
The one good thing about Robert was that he served as an excellent distraction; particularly when he was naked. Eames watched him sleep, though he tried to avoid being a total creep and hovering over the man. There was simply nothing else to watch, really, and Robert was damn pretty with his hair all sweaty and swept over his eyes and his cheeks flushed. It wasn't that Eames had been unable to resist the man, but that he had seen no point in resisting. There were certain things that he had to do, that he was compelled to do, and then there were things that he did just for the sake of doing them.
Robert was, of course, a member of the latter.
Eames couldn't say he didn't like the way Robert Fischer kissed and made love; that would be a lie. That didn't mean, however, that he had needed him. It had been one hell of a nice way to spend an afternoon; that was the most Eames could say about it.
With Robert sleeping, and his own mind hazy at best, Eames thought some on what lay ahead of him. He wasn't concerned about the job with Fischer, or who might be behind it, he was more concerned about his own chance to try inception. He had told Robert that he had the opportunity once before and he had blown it -- but that was only half true. The truth of the matter was, Eames hadn't had the stomach or the experience for what inception really entailed, and he was worried that he might still be without the proper resources.
Namely, the ability to throw his moral compass in the trash. It was almost laughable to think that Eames could possess any kind of strong moral fiber, but he was only human. There were certain things that gave him pause, and there were certain things that he knew were just plain rotten. Inception was one of those things -- sneaking through someone’s mind, turning their own thoughts into time-bombs that would either explode and be the death of them, or simply sit there ticking forever.
He had never been particularly sentimental or empathetic, but even he could see that there was something horribly wrong with inception. Even still, he had accepted Robert's proposal. Granted, he had had guns pointed at him by three very brutish men, but the point was he wanted to try again. Ego, vanity, no matter what the reason was, he had the desire for it.
Eames had always been terrible at denying himself the things he desired, no matter how morally ambiguous.
As far as the job on Fischer went, there wasn't much to be done. They lacked the resources and the knowledge to construct any kind of preemptive strike, and Robert seemed content to lay in wait for his pursuers. Eames had told the man that he thought the man coming after him might be Cobb, but there was no way to know for sure. Cobb had always been the kind of man to seize an opportunity when he saw one, but Eames had never known him to be reckless.
That was why he was there though, beyond his supposed skill and talent. Eames was bait to draw out the people who wanted to wend their way through Fischer's subconscious. Humility had never been Eames' strong suit -- he knew that he was damn good at what he did, and any team without him on board would be piss poor at best, and possibly hazardous at worst.
They would come for him, eventually, whoever they were.
In the meantime, Eames watched Robert, pushing back his hair from his forehead and looking at his pretty face. That face was deceptive, Eames knew. Robert was a crafty, scheming son of a bitch, and Eames doubted he would hesitate to dispose of him if it suited his interests.
It was almost something to be proud of.
Part Two>>>