Brick/Inception: Après Moi, le Deluge

[osaki_nana_707]

Title: Après Moi, le Deluge (12/24)
Author: osaki_nana_707
Fandom: Brick/Inception fusion
Word count: 4,470
Pairing: later Brendan(Arthur)xEames, mentions of BrendanxEmily and BrendanxLaura
Rating: R
Warnings: currently violence, language, mentions of character death
Summary: Brendan should have known better than to tug on loose threads. He should have known that one loose thread was all it took to make everything unravel, but he’d been tired and just wanted things to be done. He should have known well enough that things were never done.

Special thanks to wadebramwilson for betaing! <3



TWELVE

Brendan was shivering as he slumped inside a phone booth near the Thames; the rain had started up again, soaking him through. It hurt to move even a little, and he squeezed his eyes shut in a wince as he dialed the number on the crumpled sheet of paper stained with water and blood in his other hand.

Brendan hadn't taken Laura's words to heart, having thought she'd been blowing smoke. He'd been much more interested in looking through her little black notebook while the rain had let up, finding a couple of familiar names-Monroe, Charlie, and Haji, as well as John Wells himself-and a whole lot of other names he didn't recognize. He honestly couldn't wait to get the book into Brain's hands and see what sort of magic he could work with so much information. He couldn't help but think about the possibilities.

It had been so cold, and he'd been tired from wandering around and worn down from the emotional roller-coaster that was seeing Laura again, and he was starving too. The half-eaten scone still back at the café hadn't gone far in quelling the rumbles of his stomach. He was thinking only of getting on the train and getting back to Mal's house, where he could curl up under a bunch of blankets and hide from the miserable weather for a while. Brendan generally made the effort not to suffer from stupid mistakes, but even he was capable of them, and when he'd looked up at the sound of his name, he had just enough time to see the metal pipe swinging towards his face. Pain had exploded through his skull, his vision going white and his hearing turning to white noise, and when his senses had more or less returned he had found himself on the ground and being pummeled. The blow had sent his glasses flying off in some direction along with a couple of his back teeth and a good amount of blood, and he realized just how grave an error he'd made.

The pipe fell upon his arm and shoulder, his ribs, his legs. He had curled up in an effort to keep his head from taking the blows, but the man hitting him was unceasing. Brendan had only gotten a split second to look at the brute-his squashed red nose, his steel gray eyes-but it was pretty obvious that he was one of the boys Laura had been referring to. He sort of wished she was there in that moment, though he wasn't so sure if she would actually try to help him or just watched. Honestly, he just wished he had someone, anyone there.

He kicked the unknown assailant harshly in the shin once, twice, again. It wasn't much, but it was apparently painful enough to make the man momentarily let up. Brendan used that moment to scramble to his feet, stumbling backwards to avoid the swing of the weapon. His right eye was already swelling shut from the bruising, the fresh, coppery taste of blood prominent in his mouth. Without his glasses, it was hard to judge his distance, and when the pipe was swung at him again, it managed a hit, sending him crashing back to the ground.

A hand immediately clamped down on his throat, nearly large enough to wrap around it all on its own. He made a gurgling sound, squirming in a useless effort to fight off his attacker. Even with only one good eye and already terrible vision, he could see the man's teeth, his pale hair, his flushed skin. He was heavy but built like a boxer, older, probably used to play some sort of sport. He was saying something, but Brendan couldn't make it out over the blood rushing through his ears.

"P-please," Brendan spluttered, hands grabbing at the man's shirt in desperation. His knuckles were bloody, fingers shaking and unable to hold their grip. "St-sto-stop-"

The ringing in his ears dulled a little as the man relaxed his grip on his neck, but only a fraction. "-doesn't have to end like this," Brendan caught him saying. "Just tell me where to find the PASIV you stole."

Brendan coughed, blood seeping out from between his lips. "I don't… know what you're talking 'bout," he rasped, letting out a yelp as the man tightened his grip again. "I don't know, I don't know-"

"Don't play dumb with me!" the man shouted, Brendan flinching at the spittle that dusted him in the process. "You've got to be staying somewhere, and a little brat like you doesn't have the cash to just hop a plane to Paris. You're on the in and you took something that was ours so tell me!"

Accent-not English or French-maybe Dutch or German or-

Brendan whimpered, spots dancing in his already hazy vision. The man was still talking, still demanding answers. He could have been shouting or even whispering, but Brendan couldn't put it together.

Chillingly, he thought, I'm going to die like this.

He squeezed his good eye shut, trying to dismiss those sorts of thoughts, but waiting behind his eyelids was an image of Emily, holding out her hand.

Maybe this isn't even real… maybe this is all in my head… Brendan thought, finding that it calmed the panic his air-restricted body was struggling against. Maybe it's just a dream. Maybe I'll wake up when this is over.

It was as if Emily's lips were next to his ear as he heard her whisper his name. "Brendan."

"M'…ly…" he choked.

And then, in his other ear…

"The lesson you really need to be taught is that you've got to be able to put a bullet between the eyes of someone or something harmful."

Eames.

"If you can't fight this projection yourself, then it's never going away."

It didn't matter if this was a dream or not. He couldn't let himself go down this easily.

"Get your shite together."

That wasn't how he did things.

Brendan used every ounce of strength he still had in him to slam his knee into the gut of the man holding him down, shoving him off and scuttling backwards, coughing and wheezing. His assailant had recovered alarmingly quickly from Brendan's blow, but Brendan wasn't stupid enough to think this man would go down from brute force alone.

That was when he remembered the gat he'd snagged from Laura's purse.

He only had one shot, and he'd never even fired a gun, and he could hardly see. The odds most definitely were not in his favor, but he hoped that a bullet wound absolutely anywhere would at least distract the man long enough for Brendan to make a run for it.

His hands were shaking as he pulled the gun from its hiding place and pointed, finding that his attacker who had been lumbering towards him froze at the sight of it. Brendan couldn't afford to give him time to recover, so in that second where he stopped, Brendan fired.

The bang that rang out was the only thing he could hear over the fizzle. It hadn't sounded out as dramatic as he had expected.

The man crumpled to the ground in a heap, but for several seconds Brendan didn't dare move. He waited in the engulfing silence for a twitch, a movement of any kind, but there wasn't one. Cautiously, Brendan got to his feet, adrenaline being the only thing keeping him standing. He looked around for any sign of someone who might have heard, but the part of town he was in was excluded, run down, and abandoned. No one had heard, or if they had, no one had come to see what the ruckus was about.

Brendan found his glasses on the ground, one lens crushed, the other cracked. He put them back on anyway and approached the body, nudging him with his foot until the man rolled over.

There was a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.

Brendan's breath left him shakily as he stared down at the man, the person he had…

He looked at the gun in his hand and back to the body, swallowing another mouthful of blood.

…and the rain started to fall.

Brendan had run after that, hiding the gun back in his jeans as he tore through the streets. He only slowed down when he found himself in a more populated area, throwing his hood up over his dripping wet hair to conceal his bruised and battered face as best as he could. He made it to the Thames before his legs gave out, but he tossed the gun into the water just the same.

That was how he had ended up in the phone booth-wet, shivering, and pummeled.

He dialed the number, leaning heavily against the glass wall furthest from the door, and he waited.

After three rings. "Yeah, hello?"

"Eames?" Brendan queried, having expected Mal or… really anyone else to actually answer.

"Who is this?"

"It's…" Brendan sighed. He didn't have time for this. "Who do you think it is?"

"Arthur?"

"Put Sam on the line."

"Put… Oy, are you all right? You don't sound right."

"Eames," Brendan gritted out.

"Right, fine. Hang on."

There were a long couple of minutes where the other line was silent. Brendan coughed into his elbow, licked the blood off of his lips.

"Hey, yeah," Eames said as he picked the phone back up. "Your darling little Sam is snoozing. I don't think a bloody earthquake could wake him."

Of course Brain would heed his advice of getting some sleep the one time he needed him to be awake. "Fine. Forget it," Brendan mumbled and moved to hang up.

"Hold on now, hold on!" Eames exclaimed from the other end. Brendan put the phone back to his ear.

"Eames, I don't have enough lettuce to keep chinning with you."

"What did you need? I can give him the message."

"Don't worry about it. I'm heading back now. I'll be there in a few hours."

"Where are you?"

Brendan started to answer but ended up coughing again, the blood that had gotten into his lungs trying to get out.

"Brendan? Hello?"

Brendan slumped forward in the booth, vision momentarily going black. When he came back to, he was crouching, breath coming out of him in heaving gasps.

Eames was still on the line, calling out to him again and again.

"I'm… I'm here. Close your head, I'm here," Brendan sputtered weakly. "I'm in London. I'm taking the Eurostar train back."

"I'll pick you up."

Before Brendan could argue, the line went dead. He hung up the phone with a bit more force than necessary, wrapped his scarf around the bottom half of his busted face, pulled his hood back up, and limped the rest of the way to the station.

The long trip back to Paris gave Brendan plenty of time to calm his rapidly beating heart. As the adrenaline and horror over what he'd done settled, he started to really feel the effects of what his unknown assailant had done to him. He was sure the bruises were pretty brutal, dark enough that make-up wouldn't be able to hide them. The blood flow in his mouth had finally stopped, but he was still coughing it up, staining the scarf with speckles of it.

He'd gotten a couple of horrified stares from the passengers that bothered to pay him any attention, but mostly he was left alone with his thoughts.

A man was dead because of him.

It didn't matter that it had been an accident, that he'd only meant to wound-the blood was still on his hands. The moment that Brendan had seen the bullet in the man's skull, reality had slammed into him like a mack truck. When there was a body at his feet, a body he'd put there, everything became instantly real. Even though he'd done it in self-defense and he didn't even know the bastard who strangled him within an inch of his life, it was still a body on his name. Brendan had done a lot of dangerous, even horrible things, but he'd never killed anyone before. Paranoia crept in at the edges of his mind, whispering words of warning that the bulls would come for him, that they would find the gun that he threw in the river. It was a slim possibility, but a possibility just the same. After all, he was the suspicious gee sitting on the train with the bruised up mug and dried blood on his knuckles. He just hoped he didn't have an easily recognizable face.

Brendan slumped in his seat, aching in places he didn't even know he had. All he wanted to do was take a hot bath and then sleep for four days. He didn't think he'd ever been in such dismal shape. He could still hear his pulse in his ears, his head pounding. He kept his eyes closed for most of the trip in order to quell the sting the lights triggered. He couldn't wait to wash the blood out of his hair, disgusted by the way it stuck to the side of his head. He hoped cleaning himself up and getting some rest would calm the nauseous feeling as well. Allowing his concussed brain to quit for a little while would probably do him good regardless.

Before he realized it, the train was pulling to a stop. He'd dozed off at some point, he was pretty sure, but the ride back had been a little hazy anyway. He wasn't even sure if he was actually getting off the train or just dreaming it, but he didn't much care. Fantasy or not, he was closer to the house.

He shuffled off of the train and onto the platform, wishing he had enough money left over to hail a taxi. It was raining and miserable in Paris too, and he just wasn't sure he had the strength to hoof it.

That was when a hand landed on his shoulder, causing him to cringe. "There you are," Eames said lightly, holding an umbrella over the both of them. "See? I told you I'd come give you a lift-oh…" He trailed off when Brendan turned to look at him. Rather than toss out a gibe, Eames just wrapped his arm around Brendan and nodded in the direction of his Range Rover. He let Brendan lean all of his weight on him as he helped him to the car and into the passenger seat. With the heat blasting, Eames tore out of the parking lot, and Brendan momentarily considered dying in the seat.

"Oy, oy, don't fall asleep. Don't just sleep yet, yeah? Tell me what the fuck happened to you," Eames said, his voice seeming far away.

Brendan tried to answer regardless, voice rough from coughing. "Some number of John Wells… He came at me with a pipe."

"Bloody hell," Eames hissed. "What happened to him?"

Brendan stayed silent for a while, looking out the window. "I got away from him. What does it matter?"

"He could have followed you."

"No. He didn't."

Eames was quiet. Then, "You killed him."

Brendan coughed. "It was either him or me. I did what I had to do."

"Mm, I suppose so. Glad to see you're all right though, considering."

"I wouldn't call this all right."

"Alive then."

Brendan turned his head to look at Eames, studying his profile, the pointed nose, the plush mouth worked into a subtle frown, the brow lined with what almost looked like worry. He was pale and his eyes a bit distant, like he was looking at something that only existed in his memories now.

"Anything broken?" Eames asked before Brendan could question his concern.

"Don't know. Don't think so. I think I've got a concussion though."

"Yes, well, if someone goes at your skull with a pipe, I would imagine so. How did-no… What the fuck were you even doing over there on your own? Looking for trouble?"

Brendan dug in his coat until he found Laura's notebook, holding it up. "I got this out of it. Not a total loss."

"What even is that?" Eames grumbled, still not meeting Brendan's gaze. It was as if he couldn't bear to look at his face in the state it was in.

"A list of all of the guys who work for Wells, along with their numbers and addresses."

"Well, look at you, being productive."

Brendan coughed again, curling over in the front seat. He was only vaguely aware of the hand that slipped onto his back to help ground him.

Brendan jolted awake at the sound of the car door slamming and found they were back at the house. Eames opened the passenger door and helped him out. Brendan's legs nearly gave out on the spot, so he was actually grateful that Eames was there to catch him, still warm from the car.

"Come on, now, love. Easy does it," Eames said gently, pulling one of Brendan's arms over his shoulder. "Just hang on and I'll get you inside, yeah?"

Eames kicked the door to the Range Rover shut and together they made the slow trek to the door. Brendan leaned against the wall while Eames unlocked the door to the house, stumbling in ahead of Eames after he assured him he could manage it on his own. The steps looked impossible, but he ascended them anyway, Eames right behind him to make sure he wouldn't fall.

"Where's Mal?" Brendan asked as he hobbled into the bathroom, lowering the hood on his parka and slowly unwinding the scarf from his face and neck.

"Went with Cobb and her father to the University. Something about chemical adjustments. Now, turn around, let's get you out of those wet clothes and take a butchers at the damage."

"Butchers?" Brendan questioned.

"A look, darling, a look. You of all people shouldn't be teasing about slang."

Brendan would have shrugged, but he knew it would hurt, so he decided not to bother. He stripped out of his clothes, and with every damp, dirt and blood-stained article he dropped onto the floor, Eames got a little more ashen. When he caught his reflection in the mirror, he supposed he understood Eames's horror.

"You're one giant bruise, aren't you," Eames said, running the bath. "Come on, off with your pants too. You need to get all that blood off of you."

"I think I can handle a bath on my own, Eames."

"Unless you pass out and go under. Don't be so bloody modest."

Brendan cleared his throat awkwardly and stepped out of his boxers before climbing into the tub. The hot water did help soothe his aches and pains some. It probably was good that Eames stuck around to help, since Brendan barely had the strength to lift his arms at the moment, and when Eames pressed a wet cloth to the spot on his head, he promptly blacked out.

Brendan came to when something cold was placed over his right eye. He knew he was on a bed, though it didn't feel quite like his own, and he knew he was dry and dressed. Someone was next to him, shushing him softly. It was then that Brendan realized he was whimpering.

He opened his available eye, looking up at blurry image of Eames.

"Welcome back," Eames said. "Hold onto these frozen peas. Keep them over your eye. It'll help the swelling go down. Take these pills too. It'll help with your aches."

"Is this real?" Brendan croaked, accepting the pills.

Eames's expression was unreadable while he watched Brendan pop the pills into his mouth, offering a glass of water to help wash them down. Brendan had to sit up on his elbows to drink, but as soon as the pills were down, he laid back down. "Let me tell you a story," Eames said when Brendan was comfortable again. "Stay awake for it, all right?"

Brendan watched as Eames got off of the bed (definitely not Brendan's bed-they must have been in Eames's room). "Do you remember the mate of mine that I told you about? The one that you reminded me of?"

"Scrappy, thin, sharp eyes?" Brendan asked, almost managing a smirk.

"Good to know your noggin is still intact. Yes, that one… Well, for the record, his name was Antony. He and I were in the same unit, both of us training under the PASIV device back when it was still being used in the military. He was basically you with an accent like mine, so you probably would have hated him." By then Eames had dragged an old shoebox out of the closet and settled back onto the bed. He opened it and handed Brendan a photograph. It was of Eames and, surely enough, a scrappy, thin, sharp-eyed boy with the same buzzed hair, both of them in combat uniforms. They were obviously drunk when the picture had been taken, hanging all over each other and laughing. Brendan wasn't sure he'd ever seen such genuine joy on Eames's face.

"That's him," Eames said needlessly. "A cheeky bugger. He always had a cutting word to sarcastically offer when it suited him. He was so clever you couldn't even be angry with him. A good man. The best."

"Why do you keep saying 'was'?" Brendan asked, though he already knew the answer. He just didn't know the reason behind the answer.

Eames sighed, and even though his expression was as carefully blank as always, Brendan could see the sorrow behind his eyes. Even with his vision hindered, he could tell.

"Shot himself," Eames sighed. "He got lost, thought he was still dreaming. He threw his totem away, didn't believe in it anymore. In the end, I think he'd seen so much that he didn't really believe in anything anymore."

Brendan wasn't sure what to say, so he stayed silent.

"Anyway, I didn't start this story to make you feel sorry for me," Eames said. "I wanted to tell you about the time before that happened, back before I lost him. We went to Mombasa while we were on leave. There was a casino there that we lost our arses on. It was a bloody good time. It was there that we got our totems, both of us. We were so inseparable it just sort of made sense that our totems matched, you know?"

Eames lifted a plastic bag full of crumpled paper and handed it to Brendan. "I never touched it. I don't know how it works."

Brendan didn't understand at first until he dug through the crumpled papers and found a little red die. "This…" Brendan said softly, wrapping his fingers around it. "This is…"

"He's got no use for it now," Eames shrugged. "I swear on his life that I never touched it. I grabbed it with the paper and kept it in this box ever since. It's not my place to know how his totem works, but I think he would have wanted you to have it… No one deserves to get lost."

Eames looked away as Brendan sat up fully, observing the little dents and scratches carefully before rolling the die onto the bedside table. Again and again the number came up. Three. Three. Three.

A loaded die.

Brendan pocketed it in the sweats he'd been put into. "Eames…. Thanks."

"Hey, someone's go to take care of you," Eames chuckled, flopping down onto the bed next to Brendan.

Brendan laid back down too, rolling his eyes. "Why does everyone keep saying that?" he huffed, wincing a little as Eames picked up the forgotten bag of frozen peas and placed it over Brendan's eye again.

"I can't imagine why anyone would think you need someone to take care of you," Eames teased. "I mean, look at what being on your own has done for you."

"Ha-ha, yeah, okay, you raise a fair point," Brendan said irritably. "This could have been a lot worse."

"Yeah," Eames said softly, hand grazing over the brutal marks on Brendan's neck. "He did a real number on you just the same."

Brendan found it hard to meet Eames's gaze, but he wasn't sure why.

"I'm sorry about what happened to your friend," Brendan said.

"Nothing to be done about it now. You can't save everyone, no matter how much you love them."

"You loved him?"

"Yeah… I did. More than anyone I ever have, probably."

Brendan swallowed around the knot in his throat. He wasn't sure what was causing this sudden influx of emotion other than the fact that he was so worn thin that he didn't have the strength to keep the wall up. "I loved someone like that once," he whispered.

"The blonde girl."

"Emily," Brendan amended. "Her name is… her name was Emily."

"What happened to her?"

"I didn't keep her safe…"

Eames sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I'm sorry, Brendan."

Brendan squeezed his eyes shut. "Me too."

Eames moved the bag off of his eye, promptly changing the subject. "Swelling's gone down some. Can you open it now?"

It didn't open all the way, but he could at least see out of it. Eames was close enough to his face that he could make out his features clearly, could feel his breath ghosting against his face.

"You know," Eames said, "feeling guilty about it now isn't going to bring her back."

"It was my fault," Brendan confessed, and his voice wobbled unexpectedly. "It was all my fault…"

The next thing Brendan knew, Eames was shushing him again, his hand sliding through his hair, pushing it back off of his forehead. Brendan was vaguely aware that he was whimpering again, and he couldn't get it to stop. Just like the night when Laura had pulled him into his arms, whispering apologies and swallowing his sobs down the back of her own throat, he was overwhelmed. All of the fears and worries, the sleepless nights, the warnings, the escapes, the beating and the betrayals and Emily's coy smiles before she smashed a brick against the side of his face… the dead body on his name… and Laura's hand on top of his… It was all too much for someone to handle on their own.

Eames's mouth was pressed against the corner of Brendan's mouth, whispering little lies about how it would all be okay, telling him it was all right. Brendan turned his head into it until their mouths were slotted against each other's, if only to quiet him.

Maybe he just needed someone to touch him like this, just for a little while.

He just needed someone to take care of him.

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