Lights will guide you home (and I will try to fix you) 1/2
Written for i_reversebang.
Title: Lights will guide you home (and I will try to fix you)
Artist: aya_no_hako
Art Prompt: 1020
Rating: PG
Summary: Post-movie fic. Inception doesn’t go according to plan. Robert falls apart, and Saito has to catch him.
Word Count: 9,744
Disclaimer: The fic title is borrowed from Coldplay's Fix You. The chapter titles are taken from lyrics by All Time Low.
“All the things one has forgotten scream for help in dreams. “
I. When I wake up, the dream isn’t done.
Lightning flickers in the sky; thunder at its heels, a rolling, sonorous rumble that rattles the windows. The air is electric; charged, almost roiling with raw expectation. Beyond the curtains, the clouds are massing, black, heavy and menacing. Looming over him. Get lost, they seem to say, this is not your place.
The floor is thick with dust, and when he steps back, clouds of it rise, causing his eyes to water and sting. A flash of red catches his eye. It’s a cleanly sliced pomegranate, lying on the table. Someone’s just been here, obviously forgetful, or in a hurry; there’s still a large chunk of the fruit uncut. There’s a knife too, its blade gleaming dark with something thick and viscous in the fading light. He shudders, eyeing it uneasily. Something about the knife speaks of barely restrained menace. No one else is here - he’s sure of it, but somehow, somehow - he is afraid. But he is also thirsty, and the fruit is ripe, a rich, deep red.
Thirst wars with caution, and thirst wins. The first bite is sweet, the juice dripping down his chin, but the second is not. The taste in his mouth changes, sets his teeth on edge. It is copper-sharp and salty, coating the back of his tongue and his teeth. He gags, trying to spit. When his hand comes away from his mouth it is deep crimson. Blood. He flings the pomegranate away, screaming - or trying to, but the blood keeps oozing from his mouth, choking him, and all he can do is gasp brokenly for air.
I am so disappointed, someone says distantly. So disappointed. His father’s voice is clinical, detached. Indifferent.
Help me, he chokes out, but the floor is spinning and the storm has broken in, icy rain lashing at him, thunder crashing in his ears -
It is indeed raining outside. Robert presses his forehead to the cool glass of the window, breathing hard and willing himself to calm down. The traffic is a distant roar below; New York is a restless beast, and will stop for nothing, come rain or gridlock.
He checks the time. It’s late to wake up at a time like this, but it doesn’t matter, since he technically isn’t in charge anymore. All right. One thing at a time. He runs through his schedule for the day. A meeting with harried shareholders, another with Browning, and a last with the lawyers to wind things up - and he’d be free.
Just one more day to go, and Fischer-Morrow would be no more. He takes a deep breath, rubs the sleep from his eyes and shakes the dream off. Must be something he had last night for dinner - he should stay off the fruits maybe.
II. I run and hide at the sound of my name
“Are you sure, Robert?” Browning looks at him, watery eyes reddened from countless late nights spent poring over documents, “I just - this - your decision is very sudden. Dissolving a conglomerate like Fischer-Morrow is not something that you do lightly.”
Hunched over his coffee cup, shoulders bowed by worries, hair tousled and tie askew, he suddenly looks older, more haggard. Frail, even. The years have not been kind - the Uncle Peter that once carried him on his shoulders and swung him about is no more. When had the old man taken a break? Almost never, Robert thinks, tapping his fingers against the polished mahogany of his desk.
“I’ve thought about it - it’s final. Fischer-Morrow will cease to exist.” Saying the words is strangely liberating. There is a lightness that comes along with the statement, a sort of giddy exhilaration that sings in his veins, the sort of thing he thinks his father wouldn’t have approved of.
Browning sighs tiredly, propping up his glasses with a shaking hand, “Yes, I know. But why?”
“I -“ Robert, falters, tracing the rim of his coffee cup with an idle finger. Browning would never understand, never know what it felt like to try, time after time, and fail, sinking under the stifling weight of expectations and the harsh burn of his father’s disapproval.
He takes a deep breath, searching for the right words to say. Deflect. Evade. Deny everything and admit nothing. Tread carefully, always - tearstained lessons that always ended with him fleeing to hide in the library, curled up in his mother’s favourite chair and pretending that she was there, holding him and smoothing his hair back from his flushed face and making it all right again. But it never was.
“And here I thought you were always a champion of enterprise, Uncle Peter.” He smiles, smooth, practised, the sort of mien he reserves for clients and shareholders and his father’s friends, gesturing outside.
“The truth is, Fischer-Morrow’s days were numbered. We invested heavily - both domestically and in Europe. And that was a big mistake. Europe’s going down, and stateside we’re in a mess. We can’t do anything with those bad bonds we bought - and neither can the banks and people we got them from. To offload, liquidate the company, and start over again - that’s more feasible than trying to salvage what we’ve got left. There’s a market out there. All I’ve got to do is tap into it.”
“Robert. I know your father was a hard man. But he wanted the best for you. He loved you, in his own way, and - I just want to be sure that you’re not doing this just because you can. Just because you’re angry at him - heaven knows a good number of people are. You know Fischer-Morrow can be saved. We’ve worked all this out already. Please. It’s not worth this.” Browning leans forward, locking eyes with him, “If you’re doing it because of that, Robert, you’re only disadvantaging yourself.”
“I’m not. Really. I want the best for this company, too, and I’d rather liquidate it than have litigators leech every dollar we put into it. Fischer-Morrow’s done exceedingly well, but now it’s time for it to go.”
Robert’s fingers close around the photo in his pocket, tracing the edges. He’s looked at it, held it in his hands so many times it’s dog-eared and creased, the image burned into his memory: his father’s gruff laughter mixed with his own, and sure arms carrying him, his face buried in the crook of his father’s neck, “I loved him. Despite everything, he was still my father. Bonds like that... you might run away, but you can’t ever break them.”
“Very well.” Browning’s shoulders slump in resignation. He’s a fighter, but even he knows when the battle is already lost. Browning stands, gathering the documents back into his folder, “Good luck, Robert, and if you ever need someone to talk to...”
“I know, Uncle Peter. I’ll keep in touch.” Robert holds the smile until the door clicks shut behind his mentor’s stooped frame. Then the facade crumples. He drops his head into his hands, poise and confidence gone, vulnerable once more.
I can do this, he thinks, but it’s a hollow, washed-out shell of a thought. The certainty he felt earlier has gone, leaving him foundering in doubt.
Why am I even doing this?
III. A dead-end sign waits down the line
Fischer-Morrow’s dissolution rocks Wall Street. It is a chain reaction all across the world: the Dow, FTSE, Nikkei, SGX and Hang Seng fluctuate as traders rush to offload their stock and cash in. Now the biggest energy conglomerate in the world, Proclus Global shares trade at an unprecedented high. Everyone wants a piece of Proclus now, and it shows: PRG is green on the trading bourses, and the profits are climbing.
Dominic Cobb has done his work all too well, Saito muses. Already the phone in his secretary’s office has been ringing off the hook - the effect of so many former Fischer-Morrow affiliates rushing to throw their lot in with him now that their cash cow has deserted them. His phone, too, has been assaulted by emails, texts and whatsapp notifications - some of congratulations, others looking to secure contracts and seal deals. Saito ignores all of them. He opens his contact lists, finds a name and dials. This is important. Everything else could wait.
Jun picks up after the first ring, “Sir?” Traffic rumbles on his end of the line, punctuated by the vicious blare of a car horn - ah, New York, how little you have changed.
Jun sounds mildly peeved to be out in the summer heat, and Saito briefly regrets sending him to the other side of Pacific. But Jun has always been the best at what he does - observing, analysing, formulating plans. He is Proclus’ eyes and ears where Saito cannot go; an asset that makes him more valuable than ever.
“I’ve compiled the information on Robert Fischer, sir. You’ll find all the details in the dropbox, along with his schedule for the week ahead. And...” There is an uncharacteristic pause; Jun is oddly hesitant to continue.
“Yes?” Saito probes. Whatever it is, it can’t be good.
“This is only hearsay, of course, but there have been rumours that the death of his father left Fischer unstable. I’m finding out as much as I can now. Either way, I’d recommend that you be... careful when dealing with him.” Jun’s unease is clear; he knows what the industry insiders, for all their talk, do not. What he really means is this: that inception may have damaged Fischer.
Saito’s gut clenches, conscience and concern turning on him simultaneously.
“Keep an eye on him.” He manages, voice hoarse. “And keep up the good work. I’ll contact you when I arrive.”
“Yes, sir.” Jun terminates the call, no doubt already drawing up a list of contacts to coax and bully information out of.
Saito sighs. He’s not sorry for what he did. Guilt and regret don’t exist in the financial world, save to trip you up and drag you down. You forgot them and did what was necessary, made the decisions that kept profits up and shareholders happy, prolonging your company’s life and your job for another day.
Fischer-Morrow’s dissolution is merely a bonus. The real reason he’d hired Dominic Cobb was Robert Fischer, not his father. He remembers the first time he’d laid eyes on Robert Fischer at a conference five years ago. Painfully young, shoulders hunched, trailing in his father’s shadow, both literally and metaphorically. Trying his hardest to please, always, and taking Maurice’s disapproval wordlessly when his attempts failed.
The man he’d met in over lunch, completely by accident, was different. On his own, Robert Fischer is intelligent, earnest and eager, brimming with ideas and opinions. It was clear, though, that business chafed him. He may have been the heir apparent to Fischer-Morrow, but it just didn’t work for him. They’d had a good talk that day - about Robert’s goals (he’d wanted to go to art school, but that had been out of the question) and other things. One thing was obvious: Robert wasn’t living his own life, but his father’s. I don’t want to disappoint him, he’d said, I want ... no, I don’t know what I want. I just - I want him to be happy. My mother - losing her made him angry, at himself and at the world.
“Even if that means giving up everything you’ve ever dreamed of doing?” Saito asks, thoughtful.
The look in Robert’s eyes is one of a man who has realised, early on, that he is utterly alone, “Was there ever a choice?”
And then, realising that he’s said too much, Robert had clammed up. “Sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I just... I guess I needed to blow off some steam. Or maybe... You’re just the first person I’ve talked to who genuinely cares. Other people look at me and see my father. You’re not like that.”
Such a waste, Saito thinks. He’s seen Robert’s paintings (done furtively in stolen pockets of time) and they’re beautiful. The critics and art houses he’s contacted behind Robert’s back are in agreement - this talent could sell. R. Visser’s (real name Robert Fischer) works create a stir, and the smile on Robert’s face - surprise, intermingled with gratitude and tentative pride is worth the meetings and capital he’s missed out on, whatever Jun’s pointed reminders about the importance of performance and efficiency.
Fischer senior’s health continues to decline over the years, and Robert looks more beaten every time Saito saw him. The last straw is when he breaks down over the phone to Saito, thousands of miles away in Tokyo, “I know I’ve always been a disappointment. Knowing I can’t do anything about it - that fucking kills me every time.”
He laughs, hysterical and mocking, “Maybe I should just put an end to it, you know? No one cares, anyway.” Judging from the slurring of his words, Robert’s been drinking, and more than is healthy for him.
That’s when Saito breaks, and tells him what he really thinks of Robert, how brilliant he is and how he’s made Saito actually care. That anything that would make him happy, Saito would do. It’s a little creepy, Saito thinks in retrospect, but he meant it and still does.
Robert stays quiet for a very long time, and then when he finally speaks, it’s choked, “I... I don’t know, Saito. I mean, it’s ... sudden.”
“I just want you to know that I’m always here, if you ever need me. You’re worth more than this, Robert. Don’t sell yourself short.” Saito clutches the phone, wishing he was better at this, that the words would come easier, but he doesn’t know how to.
It’s after that he decides he needs to do something. Robert’s too bound by duty to dream of breaking away, but he must be freed of Fischer-Morrow somehow. Every day his father’s sickness worsens, is a day closer to Robert assuming control of Fischer-Morrow. He’s not made for the vicious brutality of the market; he’s for better and brighter things, and Saito is going to make it happen.
He’s hit by the idea when Jun becomes the target of a failed extraction attempt. If dream thieves can steal concepts from minds, why can’t they plant one? A single thought is all it takes to seed an idea, set the gears in motion, and bring about the beginning of the end. If Robert can be lead to think it’s his father who wants him to pursue his own path, he won’t be assailed by guilt and doubts. He’d be free to live his own life.
Ethics, a voice that sounds remarkably like Jun warns, but he brushes it away. It’s the only way to save Robert, and he’ll take it, damn the consequences.
It’s simple enough to lay the bait for Dominick Cobb. He has what the extractor needs, and the challenge of the impossible has Cobb hooked. Saito falls into limbo, and barely gets out, but what matters is that the job is done.
He’s succeeded. The headlines tell him as much. Fischer-Morrow is no more. So why is he still so uneasy?
IV. I’m a match that’s burning out
Robert clears out his father’s office. Someone has to do it, after all, and it’s not like he has anything more to do. It’s messy and stifling inside the room - Maurice hasn’t been in there ever since his illness took a turn for the worse, and he’d adamantly refused to go paperless, so the desk is overflowing with documents and dossiers, requests and contracts and reports yellowing and gathering dust.
As long as he can remember, his father practically lived in his office when he was well. All his time - seventy-five years of his ninety-five - had gone into Fischer-Morrow, propelling the company forward from its inception to its eventual reign as king of the energy markets. And now - Maurice Fischer was dead, and his company non-existent. Robert smooths out a crumpled sheet of paper, his fingers shaking.
Was this what my father really wanted? For me to go my way? But if... that was what he really wanted, why would he have invested so much in Fischer-Morrow?
Suddenly, every tick of the clock on his father’s desk that had marked time for over twenty years seems like a condemnation. Failure. Failure.
Disappointed. His father’s last word, choked out on his deathbed, haunting him even now. Twenty-seven years of trying to please, and nothing has changed. Nothing.
The paper jerks, tears in his white-knuckled grip. FISCHER-MORROW in bold type becomes FISC , the rest of the name truncated by a jagged rip.
Dammit.
“Hey.” A hand on his shoulder startles him, and he whips around, heart pounding.
Saito smiles at him, “I heard that you were here, so I thought I’d - Robert, what’s wrong?”
“I- I’m fine.” Robert crumples the torn document and lobs it into the bin, struggling to keep his composure, “Just tired, is all.”
Saito looks unconvinced, but thankfully he lets the matter rest, “You look like you could use a drink. Dinner? It’s on me.”
“Sure.” The tension is still there, but it’s lessened somewhat. Saito is familiar, a friend. Having him here, someone he can trust - it’s comforting, knowing he isn’t alone.
It doesn’t get better, though. The moment he walks into the restaurant, he’s struck by a dizzying sense of vertigo, an unshakeable feeling that he’s been thrown off-balance. It’s accompanied by a strong surge of déjà vu. He’s been here before, sometime, somewhere, a muddy, vague memory that slips through his fingers, no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it.
“Table for two.” Saito tells the waiter, dimly, and Robert’s only half-aware of following him to their table. The clink of cutlery on porcelain is reminiscent of something, he knows -
A bar. The susurrus of conversation, muted but ever-present. A man, telling him something he knows is important, but his voice is indistinct, the words fading in and out of hearing like a radio tuned to a bad frequency. The glasses on the bartop slide together, crystal chiming like a bell, and the floor itself is sloping, tipping, off-kilter, objects skidding in slow motion as in a nightmare -
“Robert? Robert!” Saito’s voice is tinged with concern.
He blinks, coming back to himself. He’s clutching the menu so tightly his knuckles are white, and the pages have left indentations in his palms.
“Sorry.” Robert flushes, pressing a hand to his forehead, “Sorry. I drifted off.”
He’s sweating, cold beads of perspiration breaking out on his skin. The fear is crippling; he feels like he’s falling apart right there, with nothing to anchor him and nothing to hold on to.
“I’m - I think I need to go home.”
Robert’s apartment is blessedly dark and quiet. Saito hovers in the doorway behind him quietly. Robert wrenches his jacket off, flings it haphazardly on the couch. His head is throbbing unmercifully, no doubt brought on by an unpleasant cocktail of fear, stress and weariness.
“If there’s anything I can do,” Saito starts, that troubled look flickering over his features again.
“Could you...” It’s getting harder to think with the fog of exhaustion creeping over him.
Saito catches him before he stumbles. It’s warm and ... safe, Robert’s tired mind registers. He turns into Saito’s grip, burying his head in the crook of the older man’s neck.
“Stay. I don’t want to be alone, Saito.” Robert murmurs, eyes sliding shut.
The last thing he remembers before falling asleep is someone tucking him in carefully and murmuring soothingly in Japanese.
Asleep, Robert looks peaceful and younger than his twenty-seven years. Saito hesitates for a moment; then leans down to brush his lips over Robert’s forehead. He barely stirs.
He shuts the door quietly and reaches for his phone.
SENDER: SAITO [23:38]
You were right. He’s not well.
SENDER: JUN [23:40]
How bad is it?
SENDER: SAITO [23:41]
I don’t know. Find Dominick Cobb.
V. You drank the poison and I let you in.
It’s three hours before Jun comes up with Cobb’s contact details. The man’s changed his name and gone to ground - hidden very well, indeed, and it’s only after much threatening and illicit digging around in federal databases that Jun manages to procure anything about him. He briefly considers adding, how about a pay rise, boss, as a postscript, but changes his mind. That would be unprofessional, and Jun doesn’t do unprofessional much, unless you count kneecapping the occasional yakuza stupid enough to antagonise Proclus. Also, pissing Saito off is generally Not A Good Idea, and it’s the last thing on his to-do list (neatly itemised in alphabetical order on a Microsoft Excel spreadsheet).
Dominick Cobb does not sound amused. It’s 3 AM, and his voice is raspy and tinny on the other side of the line, “Bit too late to have a crisis of conscience now, isn’t it, Mr. Saito? Look, there’s nothing you can do about it. This sort of thing - you don’t fix inception. You either pull through or it kills you. All the same, it’s something that stays with you.”
There’s a note of bitterness in his words. Mal’s death is still fresh in his mind, for all that it’s been five years since she jumped.
“Miles had a theory about it. He posited that it could lead to - to mental instability. The new idea is alien to the mind. All this while you’ve been used to seeing the world in a particular way, and now this - this idea that’s been seeded, it throws you off tangent. It’s contradictory to how you’ve been conditioned all your life to feel and think, and the mind can’t handle the two. It’ll try, but well. You saw Mal. Robert’s been made his entire life to fear his father. Striking out on his own is not natural for him.” Cobb sighs, “Get him to a psychiatrist, and fast.”
He doesn’t bother with an ‘I’m sorry’. His part in this is over. Saito paid him to do a job, and he’s done it. There is no debt left unfinished between them, and Cobb’s moved on to focus on being the father he never was. The fallout is Saito’s problem now.
“I understand. Thank you, Mr. Cobb.” Saito terminates the call, his heart a heavy knot in his chest. What have I done?
VI. You’re in over your head
SENDER: SAITO [14:30]
Tail Robert. Make sure he’s alright. You’ll find him in Soho.
SENDER: JUN [14:31]
On it.
Jun is careful to keep Robert in his line of sight; the streets are a shifting morass of people and he can’t afford to lose his mark - it’ll be hell trying to find him again. He takes a final gulp of his ice coffee and tosses it into a bin. All morning he’s done nothing more exerting than stroll through art gallery after gallery, Robert’s eyes alight with interest while Jun trails behind discreetly, disaffected and unfathomably bored. So far, so good. Robert hasn’t noticed his tail, and he seems fine- well, if not completely fine, then he’s in a lot better shape than the last time Jun had seen him.
Jun bites back a groan as he sees Robert pause at the doorway of yet another arthouse. Not again. He’s going to have words with Saito about this later. Granted, it’s a lot better than staring at market report after report, eyes glazing over in the glare of his computer monitor, but art is... Jun appreciates the investment potential, but that’s about the extent of his interest.
“Spare some change, mister?” Someone rattles a cup under his nose loudly, leaning forward into his personal space.
This close, the sour reek of mingled sweat, alcohol and dirt is overpowering. Jun steps back, scowling, “No.”
Robert is still in his line of sight; an undecided figure consulting a pamphlet, head bent in concentration, but he won’t stop for long. Already the crowd is threatening to sweep him along with it in a jostle of sweaty arms and legs. Jun has to keep moving, close the distance and not lose him.
“You can afford Armani, you can gimme some.” The bum is relentless. A grubby hand reaches out, claw-like and grasping.
Jun dodges, putting some distance between them. Time enough wasted. “It’s Dolce and Gabbana, actually. Now fuck off.”
He spins around, eyes zeroing in on the entrance of the arthouse - but there are two girls standing where his mark had been, and no sign of Robert at all.
“Kuso!” The anger is instinctual; so is his choice of invective, snarled not in English but in his mother tongue. He’d been careless, stupid to let himself get distracted. It’s a rookie’s mistake, and one he shouldn’t have made. Failure is out of the question. He doesn’t fail. He succeeds, every single damn time, and he’s not going to let this be the first.
Jun shoulders the door open; it jangles noisily inward, glass glancing off the wall and shuddering wildly. The receptionist starts from where she’s been reapplying her lipstick, but Jun has already swept past her, ignoring the shouts of Hey you! He walks briskly past chunky sculptures, contorted bits of plaster and wire and metal twisted and bent into tortured shapes, scanning faces as he goes. Jun recognises no one. He speeds up, ventures deeper, now past row after row of paintings, gaudy slashes of paint on white walls, but no Robert.
Breathe. Focus. Jun swerves out into the street again, hands going for his phone. Robert can’t have gone far. It’s only been ten minutes, and the crowd’s pace is agonisingly slow in the sticky afternoon heat. A quick search on Google Maps reveals that there are five galleries within walking distance, four of which have already been visited. That leaves the last one - Ars Somnio. It’s half a block down the street. Jun grins, feral, and sprints. Found you.
VII. But you don’t even know what love could do to us
Ars Somnio. Robert gazes up at the arching script, the curliques a graceful swoop against red brick. He rests his fingers against the cool glass, but doesn’t push to go in. There’s something about this place that’s... that’s different from other galleries, but he doesn’t know what. It’s making him hesitant and uneasy, and he doesn’t like it.
“The art of dreaming.” A voice chirps up from behind him without preamble. It’s girlish and cheerful - fresh grad, he thinks. She comes to his side. “It’s really new, and most of the exhibits haven’t even been installed yet, but we’re working on it! We have a couple of artists displaying - “
She’s moved round to the door to open it, her hair flying as she fumbles with her bags of takeaway, but then she catches sight of him and stops dead. “Oh!”
Shock, horror, and... fear. Robert frowns. He certainly hasn’t seen her before -
The same voice, frantic, dim, from very far away, screaming something he can’t hear and can’t understand; thunder on high, the dizzying flash of lightning splitting the sky open. The rain is everywhere, a torrent that batters brutally down on him, tons and tons of icy water soaking through cloth to cling wetly to his skin. He’s braced across the railing, the streets yawning below, struggling for a grip on the rain-slicked balcony.
“Please,” he begs, but she can’t seem to hear him - or if she does, she ignores him.
The screaming of the wind is deafening. He sees her lips move, “The kick... I’ll improvise!”
The words don’t make sense. They’re mad. They must be. They’re all mad. He’ll die.
She pushes him, hard, and the balcony falls away, the gale ripping at his jacket, buffeting him. He falls.
And then the floodgates open and the memories come back, faster than he can deal with, a jumbled deluge of images and half-remembered dreams and vague realities, and it hurts.
Robert staggers. He feels as if someone’s clouted him about the head. Too much information, all at once, but now he knows. The nightmares, the doubts, the fear which gripped him so tightly - lies. All lies. He’s been played, made a fool of, violated.
“Who?” He almost doesn’t recognise his voice when he finally forces himself to speak. It’s rough and unsteady, the wavering syllables of a desperate man.
“What?” The girl looks like she’s on the brink of fleeing. She’s pale with anxiety; her knuckles white as she clenches her fists nervously.
“Who did this?”
“I - I don’t understand what you mean. It’s just a misunderstanding - “It’s a good try, but he’s not fooled.
“Don’t lie to me, Ariadne,” he snarls, vindictively pleased when she flinches at the sound of her name, “Who hired you to break into my mind?”
Indecision mingled with pity flickers in her eyes, and then she drops his gaze, hunching further into herself. He’s won.
“Saito.”
It’s confirmation of what he already knew, but it still hits him hard, a sickening jolt to his gut. Saito. The only person he’s ever really trusted. Loved, even. And Saito had betrayed him.
Damnit.
Footsteps skid around the corner, and then stop abruptly. In front of him, her back to the glass, Ariadne inhales sharply. It’s someone she knows, then.
Robert glances around, taking in the sleek suit and the razor-sharp cuffs. There is only one person he knows who would insist on dressing like that, even in the suffocating burn of summer - Saito’s right-hand man, Takenaga Jun.
Fuck. It’s too late, too late, the damage is done and the situation is spiralling out of control, beyond Jun’s measured grasp into collateral. Jun knows that Robert knows; the betrayed look on his face tells all.
No use pretending, the game’s fucking over. He should walk away now, get out before things get any worse, but he can’t and won’t. The job’s not done. Saito’s orders had been to make sure that Robert’s alright, and Jun’s not going to leave him alone in this state.
Sorry, boss, Jun thinks bitterly. I wasn’t fast enough.
Robert’s coming towards him now, shouting angrily. Jun locks eyes with Ariadne, jerks his head in the direction of the gallery. Get in, and stay in. I’ll handle this.
Robert’s pulling his arm back. He can be pinned down, of course, but Jun doesn’t bother fighting back or ducking. There is no use reasoning with Robert, not like this. The next instant, pain explodes along his jaw, and blood in his mouth; Jun’s cut his lip. He licks the blood off. He’s endured worse than this; he’ll survive.
“Saito has his reasons for what he did. If you’re looking for him,” he deadpans, knowing his apathy will infuriate Robert, “he’s at his office. I’ll take you there.”
Jun has done all he can, and failed. It’s up to Saito now.
VIII. Made of glass and careless, we break apart the moment we feel too much
SENDER: JUN [16:46]
Robert knows. We’re on the way.
SENDER: SAITO [16:47]
I’ll be there.
“You warned him, didn’t you?” Robert growls at Jun, eyeing the other man’s Blackberry suspiciously.
Jun shrugs and leans back in his seat, “I don’t answer to you.”
“There’s a good dog.” Robert sneers. He knows he’s being childish, but he doesn’t care. It hurts, like a knife in the back, and he wants so badly to tear Saito’s world apart, send it rocking on its axis as his had been so brutally undone. Aggravating Jun, though, is an exercise in futility. The other man simply refuses to take the bait, choosing to tap at his phone instead.
Saito’s waiting for them when they arrive. Outside, the sky is darkening, the red-orange of sunset fading to black. Jun nods at his boss and disappears - where to, Robert doesn’t care. He doesn’t trust himself to look straight at Saito, so he stares out at the skyline.
He’s trembling, but not out of fear, “It’s because of Proclus, isn’t it? You know, you could have just asked instead of wreaking bloody havoc on me. It would have saved you all those hours of pretending to listen and care. It’d have spared me the delusion, too, that I actually fucking mattered to someone, for the first time in my life.”
“No.” Saito exhales heavily, “No. It was never about Proclus. It was always about you.” He makes as if to move closer, and Robert jerks away, stepping out of reach. The crushed look that flits across Saito’s features is oddly satisfying. Good. Let him see how that feels like.
Robert laughs. “What? So you could save me? Be my fucking knight in shining armour? Win me over, perhaps? Like I’m worth all that trouble, Saito - no, I don’t think so.”
“Robert. Look at me.” He’s never heard Saito so choked with emotion before.
“No.” Robert snaps back. “I’m done with listening to your shit.”
“I never meant to hurt you. Inception was for you.” There is an... odd sort of sincerity to Saito’s words, but Robert can’t believe him, won’t listen to him. It’s already been proven he can’t trust Saito, not now, not ever.
“Oh, so giving me nightmares was supposed to be beneficial to my health? Thanks, I’ll remember to mention that to my therapist the next time round. But what the fuck, Saito, I fucking trusted you. You didn’t have to do it.”
“It had to be done. Did you really want to take charge of Fischer-Morrow? You weren’t living the life you wanted to. You were trapped, Robert.”
It is true. He doesn’t... didn’t want to. But he’s not going to let Saito go so easily, not going to let down his barriers, not going to be duped again. He’s done with this - whatever they had, his father’s blasted legacy, and being a failure.
How dare you, Robert thinks savagely, the blood pounding in his veins. Rage at Saito, at his father, snarls hot within him, dark and vicious, and he lashes out without thinking. The impact - and the subsequent crimson blooming across Saito's face - is satisfying, though his knuckles ache.
"That choice was not yours to make. You don’t get to justify yourself like that, you bastard," he spits.
Saito, damn him, doesn't flinch or retort like Robert wishes he would. His face is infuriatingly calm and blank; Robert's suddenly reminded of Jun, and he hates them both for invading his life, his privacy, his mind. As if they were entitled, as if they could play God and get away with it - his fists clench of their own accord, and he wants so badly to hit Saito again.
How weak he must have seemed then, how pathetic Saito must have thought he was. That thought makes bile rise in his throat, a bitter burn mirroring the hollow ache in his chest.
"Get out." Robert says, low and angry. "Just - Get out, you bastard."
He doesn't wait for Saito to leave, but just hurries out of the room blindly, hardly caring where he's going.
Part 2