fiction: wasted so much time
( wasted so much time ) PG-15, ~4700words, arthur/cobb
Arthur comes to Cobb, months after the inception job, to see him.
Wow, I don't know when I started writing this, like two months ago, maybe, but it's over now. Done and done. A fill for this prompt at inception_kink , beta'd by the loverly obsessionful Title stolen from Reach the Sky's She Really Loved You.
Arthur's nervous.
It's not an unusual feeling when it involves Cobb, but all the same, he's nervous. He doesn't really know what he's doing here, in front of Cobb's door, briefcase in hand and suitcase on his other side by his feet.
His finger is poised above the innocent looking doorbell, a small rectangular box, with a round button slightly above the middle in an off-white colour that could be considered cream but might be because it's been there for a while.
A while.
Cobb's been out of the dream scene for a while, three and half months to be exact. Arthur's been doing jobs by himself, at times with Eames, and others with other extractors, but mostly himself.
He doesn't think he'll be able to stop like Cobb did.
Speaking of which, Arthur looks down at his briefcase, biting his bottom lip. It's not like he needs a reason to visit Cobb, hell, he used to be over every other week before the ‘incident’. But to visit now, when he hasn’t been contacted or invited, to appear without a reason was too much. Arthur wouldn't know how to explain his presence in that scenario, so he has his briefcase which holds papers to a job that he thinks only Cobb can be part of.
He wouldn't trust his life to anyone else.
Shuffling on the doorstep, Arthur rolls his shoulders before pressing the button. He flinches back, as if he's expecting the house to blow up or the doorbell to shoot water in his face, anything but for it to play a happy melody. He wipes his sweating hand on his slacks, wondering if it's too late to run now, he probably could run now, he's fast enough, surely-
"Dad! There's someone at the door!"
Phillipa. That's Phillipa's voice. A rush of emotions overcomes him, making him realise that not only does he miss Cobb, but he misses Phillipa and James as well.
"Who is it? Who iiiiis iiiiiiiiiiit?" calls Phillipa through the door, her laughter like stars twinkling.
"Phillipa, quiet a bit, sweetheart," comes Cobb's voice as the door opens and Arthur is greeted with Cobb's head turned to Phillipa as he talks to her, James cradled against him, legs curled around his waist.
"Look daddy, it's Arthur!" shouts Phillipa, ignoring her father and shooting through the door, holding her arms open up at Arthur.
Arthur can't do anything but oblige, setting his briefcase to lean against the frame of the door and he lifts Phillipa up into his arms, letting her bury her blonde head into the crook of his neck.
"Arthur?" asks Cobb, looking at him in disbelief and Arthur smiles shyly at him.
"Hi, Cobb."
“Hi Arthur!” shouts Phillipa and Arthur turns to look at her, heart swelling.
“Hello, princess.” Phillipa beams widely, giggling loudly as she hugs him around the neck.
“Hi Arthur!” mimicks James, looking at him with wide, blue eyes and Arthur smiles at him. “Hello James.”
“Arthur, what are you...” says Cobb, looking a little lost, and Arthur feels all his hope withering a bit.
“I just- you know, I...”
“Daddy!” shouts Phillipa, turning to Cobb and putting on her best ‘listen to me’ Cobb face, “You can’t talk at the door, you hafta invite the guest in!”
Arthur looks down at her in amusement and Cobb breaks into a small smile.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, you’re completely right. Where are my manners today? Arthur, come in, we’ll talk in the living room.” He turns and walks in, bouncing James in his arms as Arthur sets Phillipa down.
“Arthur, I can help!” she insists, running circles around his legs once, twice. “Can I hold this one?” she asks, small hands clutching his briefcase.
“Sure, princess. When you go in, just set it on the coffee table, would you?”
“Yes sir!” She fires off a left-handed salute and he watches as she dawdles down the hallway and can’t help but feel that even if Cobb turns him away later, seeing this again was worth it. He picks up his suitcase and follows in after, hand automatically pulling the door closed, setting the three locks back in place.
Everything looks the same as it was the last time Arthur was here. He spies the large, pink Unicorn plush he gave Phillipa five months ago watching the TV, and the train set he gave James is sprawled in one of the corners.
Arthur sets his suitcase beside the sofa, thanking Phillipa as she hauls his briefcase onto the coffee table with a flourish before bouncing off elsewhere.
Cobb comes from the kitchen, holding out a juice box looking sheepish. “It’s this, milk or water, and James insisted that you’d be happier with one of his juice boxes instead of the others.”
Arthur accepts it with a grin, and the two of them settle down onto the sofas.
“It’s been awhile,” says Cobb into the silence and Arthur has to laugh at that. How can he not?
“Yes,” says Arthur, fingers playing with the plastic encasing the straw glued to the side of the box. “Three and a half months. 108 days, to be exact.”
“Arthur...” starts Cobb, looking apologetic, but Arthur shakes his head.
“It was a two way road, Cobb. I could have done my best to... well. I’m here now.” He watches Cobb’s face intently for any expression, to see if he’s happy about Arthur’s arrival, but there’s nothing there but a closed off expression. Arthur wets his lips and sets his juice box down on the table before his hands get to his briefcase, turning it around and unlatching it. “I’ve got... I came... there’s this job,” he says finally, lifting up several sheets of paper as if he needs to read what the job entails, like he hasn’t memorised every word for this case scenario.
“A job?” asks Cobb, looking slightly surprised, and Arthur deflates further. It seems everything he says or does never seems to meet Cobb’s stamp of approval and he just wants to run out, maybe. He doesn’t need his cases, right? What’s in there that he can’t replace?
“Yes, it’s not a hard one- but it’s tricky. You’re the... I thought of you when I got it. I thought maybe we could work on this one together.”
“And Eames?”
Arthur frowns and shifts in his seat, he wasn’t expecting Cobb to tell him to get someone else. “I don’t think Eames is the best choice for this job.”
“And why is that?”
“The job... is to extract information from an extractor, Christian Guy Sparks.”
“Arthur,” says Cobb, voice cutting, low in warning. “You’re not telling me that you intend for just me and you to infiltrate Sparks’ mind, are you? Need I remind you what he did to us on the Stein job?”
“He blew our cover by pulling the Mr. Charles act, and making the mark think you were the fake Mr. Charles, I know. But this job pays big, Cobb, it could very well assure you for at least the next twenty years of your life.”
“I don’t need money, Arthur. I have my kids.”
“I know,” says Arthur, voice breaking, and he coughs to hide to brief flash of hurt overwhelming him, “but I also know how many jobs we’ve done, the amount of money you’re holding now, and you’ll have to work again, Cobb, if not now, in fifteen years at least. I’m offering you one job for a month, and twenty years without it.”
Cobb seems to contemplate this, running numbers through his head before looking at Arthur. “Why only the two of us? He knows what we look like.”
“I believe the less people in on this, the better chance of success.”
“Eames would be a gold card in this job, a forger is exactly what we need. We’d also need a projector to go against Sparks’s projections. I don’t think I need to remind you what happened on the Fischer job without one.”
“We won,” says Arthur with a smirk, “but I agree with you on having a forger and a projector. Fortunately, we do have them on the job.”
“But you said it was just you and me...” Cobb trails off, realisation dawning over him and he furrows his brows. “Are you saying you know how to forge and project now?”
Arthur shrugs, shoulders fluid with the movement. “I thought I should pick up some more trade skills now that I work mostly by myself.”
Cobb frowns, leaning forward, elbows on knees as his hands clasp together in thought. It makes Arthur anxious, unable to see what’s going on in Cobb’s head, what he thinks of Arthur now from the small details he has let loose. It wasn’t as though it wasn’t uncommon for an individual dream-sharer to have a set of skills; Cobb himself deals in the art of architecture, extraction and dream layering.
“Show me,” says Cobb, pulling his hands away from his face, “I need to see this before commenting any further.”
Arthur nods, hands going straight to his suitcase where a PASIV device is sitting amongst his clothes, waiting for this moment.
“Just get ready, I need to put Phillipa and James down for a nap.” With that Cobb gets up, brushing past him, and Arthur has to force his eyes not to flutter close at the brief contact, the warmth it sends through him, the familiar scent of Cobb mixed with domesticity.
He gets everything ready with precision and speed, setting up the device on the flat of the table before inserting the Somnacin into the cradle. Wondering how long Cobb wants go under for, he decides two hours in dream time is ample enough and sets the timer for ten minutes. The LED display flashes ‘LOCKED’, and Arthur sits back against sofa, closing his eyes and taking in the sounds of Phillipa and James laughing as Cobb sings them a lullaby.
He can imagine in flashes, the smile on Cobb’s face, stroking back Phillipa’s gold locks, her sleepy blue eyes as she starts to drop off into an untouched dream, and James putting up a fight, playing with his trains underneath the covers until Cobb catches him, setting the toys on a nearby table and kissing his forehead, tucking him in tight, murmuring soft words of love.
Footsteps patter all over the room, checking and double checking that each child is asleep and comfortable before they come closer, ringing louder until a hand touches Arthur’s shoulder and he jumps back, a whole body flinch. His eyes snap open as his fingers curl around the wrist, ready to snap it.
There’s loud panting, and murmuring and Arthur doesn’t realise it, until he does, that he’s the one panting like he’s ran a marathon and Cobb’s hand is lax against his shoulder, calling his name over and over again in a soft tone.
“Arthur, are you okay?” asks Cobb, voice still carrying that soft tone and Arthur pulls his hand back like it’s been burnt, slicking his hair back with the palm and nods, trying to even out his breathing.
“Yeah,” he manages to get out, “sorry, you surprised me. Guess I’m a little tired.”
“We don’t have to do this now,” says Cobb, still looking at him with that worried expression, “you should get some sleep.”
“No,” Arthur shakes his head, “I’m good, honestly.”
Cobb seems to hesitate for a second before he nods, “Okay then,” and sits himself back where he was, settling down.
It isn’t until Arthur is wiping his wrist down with an alcohol pad, reaching for the IV lines, does he realise that Cobb is wearing sweats and a threadbare t-shirt, and Arthur’s face heats with how much nostalgia hits him upon seeing Cobb dressed like that. The nights and days they go through while working together was immense, and they’ve both seen each other at their best and worst.
Back then, they were partners, friends, family.
And now?
They’re not.
“Arthur?”
He looks up from inserting the IV line into Cobb’s wrist and doesn’t realise his eyes feel glassy and he’s not going to be a fucking girl about this. He is not.
He grins. “Just thinking back on the old days, you know? When we used to do this.”
“Arthur,” says Cobb again, and it seems that’s the only thing he can say today.
Arthur pulls away, and sits back against the sofa, hooking himself up. “I hope two hours is enough for you. I was thinking... you could be the dreamer. I’d like- I’d like to see you build again.”
Cobb is silent for two seconds before he nods, and Arthur presses the trigger before reclining.
“What drink would you like, sir?” asks the bartender, blue eyes hiding beneath his lock of blond hair.
“Oh,” says Arthur, blinking, “Blackout Grin. Please.”
The bartender nods, and sets up to making the concoction while Arthur turns in his seat at the bar, eyes taking in the room with its warm ambient glow coming from the chandelier in the middle of the room, reflecting off the mirror ceiling. The room is a cream and musky green with gold details lining the glass-stained windows with Romanesque arches and columns giving in to a polished checker floor.
Little booths instead of tables are pressed close against the wall, white leather seats with a sculpted headboard above them, curls into a divider. The tables encased by the semi-circle seats are glass tables, stabilised by, intricate in detail by simplistic in design, stands, that seem to dig into the floor as if they were tree roots.
“I haven’t done this in a while, so excuse me for being rusty,” says Cobb, appearing beside Arthur in his usual black and white suit, taking a seat.
“I...” starts Arthur, truly speechless. It’s been such a long time since he’s seen Cobb’s architecture, forgot how rich they were in detail and beautiful to look at. “You still got it,” he says, huffing out a laugh.
The bartender sets his drink in front of him, and Arthur nods to him. Cobb declines to order and sits there, letting Arthur take in his design- the sight outside the windows is gorgeous as well, endless city lights twinkling in a sea of darkness.
“Did you want to try...?” asks Cobb, inclining his head to the side and Arthur looks away from the condensation of his glass to nod.
“Eames gave me intensive forgery training though he didn’t want to, but it was easy to bribe him into giving them,” says Arthur, looking up at the mirrored ceiling and taking a deep breath. “First person I could impersonate was him, it was pretty easy to.” He looks down at his lap before back up at the mirror to see Eames looking back at him
“Hello darling,” he says, schooling his voice into Eames’ accent and tone and turning to face Cobb. “Buy you a drink?”
Cobb blinks at him, eyes wide on every opening and Arthur has to keep himself from laughing. He slings an arm around Cobb’s shoulder, bringing their faces close together, “Or could I convince you to a private drink back in my room?”
“Eames,” says Cobb, getting this glint in his eyes, like he’s got the joke, like he’s been connected as the second player of this game. “You have to know that I have to decline that offer.”
“Don’t be shy,” smirks Arthur, picturing Eames’s most arrogant one in his head, eyes slightly hooded for a flirtatious look, “I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Excuse me,” says someone behind them, and Arthur has to pull back to raise an eyebrow at his projection- a tall, dark hair man with green eyes and slight stubble, wearing a suit without the jacket, collar opened slightly, olive tie tucked into his vest with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He turns to Cobb with a smile and asks, “Do I know you? Dominick Cobb, right?”
Cobb raises an eyebrow at Arthur before addressing the projection. “Yes, I am. And you are?”
“Liam White,” says the projection, putting out a hand. “Could I buy you a drink, Mr. Cobb?”
Arthur blinks at his projection’s boldness, wondering what is going on. He recognises the name as well, a fake he used two years ago in the month of May, a job in Milan.
Cobb doesn’t seem to be bothered by Liam’s antics at all and declines his offer with a shake of his head. Liam isn’t shaken off too easily because he takes a seat beside Cobb, putting a hand on his shoulders.
“Is that you, Cobb?” asks another voice, and another man, this time dressed in black skinnies, white button down and suspenders approach them. “It’s Ryan Mixon, remember?”
Another name Arthur recognises, three years, December, a job in Austin.
“Ryan,” snaps Liam, “back the fuck off now.”
“Why don’t you back the fuck off,” says a shorter man, dressed down in a full black suit.
“Daniel Sloan, how nice of you to join the party.”
Daniel Sloan, one and a half years ago, April, a job in Moscow.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Cobb. I’m Stephen Jaime.”
Stephen Jaime, nine months ago, January, a job in London.
“Dom,” interrupts another projection and this time, Arthur is faced with a full projection of himself, wearing an olive suit. “C’mon, let’s get out of this gay bar.”
“Gay bar?” asks Cobb, raising his eyebrows. Projection Arthur scoffs, rolls his eyes and spreads his hand at the whole room.
“Well, that or it’s some strange, homosexually-repressed bar filled with men. Now let’s go, I’ve got a room up on the sixth floor.” As Projection Arthur says this, he slides a hand down Cobb’s side, hand going underneath his black jacket and Cobb jumps in his seat, a flush creeping onto his cheeks.
“Excuse me,” says Arthur still wearing Eames’s face, fuming slightly. What the hell is wrong with his fucking subconscious? “But he’s with me.”
Projection Arthur raises an eyebrow at him and wow, did he always look this bitchy when he does that, and laughs. “I don’t think so.”
Before Arthur can even put a hand on him, all the men that flirted with Cobb crowds him, holding him back.
“Arthur?” asks Cobb, looking confused, but the projection smiles sweetly at him before straddling his lap.
“This is just a dream, Dom,” he says, running hand through Cobb’s hair, “you’re dreaming. You don’t remember how we got here, do you? It’s okay. You have me,” then he leans down to kiss Cobb, hand turning into a fist in his blond hair.
Arthur watches helpless as the projection ravages Cobb, undulating on his lap as he makes noises against his lips. It doesn’t even matter that he’s no longer holding Eames’s face, he can’t budge from the hold his projections have on him, and can’t speak past the hands over his mouth.
“You trust me, don’t you?” whispers Projection Arthur, breaking away from Cobb, licking at his swollen lips. “We don’t have long in this dream, but I’ll do anything you want, Dom. Anything.”
Arthur watches Cobb just melt into the projection’s embrace, arms coming around to loop lovingly around its waist, and he feels something break within him, filling him up with anger, and he recognises the feeling as jealousy.
“What was that, Dom?” asks the projection, snapping Arthur’s attention away from his thoughts. He sees it flick a sly grin in his direction before smiling softly back at Cobb.
“Fuck me,” says Cobb, almost gasping it out, and the bar’s back wall just collapses into a wide arch, an entrance to a gorgeous room with a large bed in the middle, sheets with gold and silver stitching, lamps a glowing hue encased in glass on either side of the bed.
The look on Cobb’s face as he said that; how opened his face looked, his body going lax as the projection guides him to the bed, all those things make something in Arthur crack open. Then he’s struggling wildly, trying to focus, remember the things he learnt from being a projector and hears more than sees the militarised projection he summoned.
One by one his standard projections fall, the cage he’s caught in begins to weaken and he projects his faithful Glock into his hand, burying bullets in the closest projections’ heads. The room is cleared in a matter of minutes, but Arthur knows his subconscious won’t like this.
He can hear them rioting outside.
“Go and take care of them,” he tells his army of one.
He tells himself the reason why it’s only one is because he’s a weak projector, not because he keeps letting his emotions get in the way of his creations. But he knows it’s a lie as he watches his projection of Cobb in an all black tailored suit, wielding his Beretta Px4 in one hand and a H&K USP in the other, run off.
Arthur looks away, reloads his Glock, racking the slide and heads towards the real Cobb.
He walks in, past the arch, and there’s Cobb on the bed, on all fours, pants pooled around his knees, making the most obscene sound with Projection Arthur stroking one hand down his back while the other hand-
Arthur sees red, the feeling in his chest is heavy and he grabs the collar of Projection Arthur, dragging him away from Cobb. He finds that he can’t even say a word, just emit a low growl in his throat before he presses the muzzle of his gun right to its head and pulls the trigger without any second thought.
The projection goes limp in his hold, and Arthur throws it away like garbage.
“Arthur,” pants Cobb, looking confused, looking fucked out, “what.”
“Time to wake up,” says Arthur, not looking at Cobb. His hand tightens on the Glock, and he doesn’t want to shoot Cobb awake, but it doesn’t seem there’s anything around for a kick.
Cobb seems to notice this, asks, “Aren’t you going to shoot me?” and there’s a shuffle of movement, a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.
Arthur shakes his head, tries hard not to shrug Cobb off as his lips press together in a thin line. “I was hoping we could get a kick.”
“Just do it,” says Cobb, guiding the gun to his head. The expression on his face is open, full of trust.
It’s too confronting.
Arthur closes his eyes and pulls the trigger.
Cobb’s body falls against him, a lifeless weight, and he stumbles back, opens his eyes to watch the dream waver and break.
“Arthur! Arthur!” shouts a voice and Arthur turns to see his projection of Cobb running towards him, half turned to shoot, once from the Beretta, twice from the USP. “The dream is collapsing; your subconscious is going wild. Wake up!”
“I don’t want to,” whispers Arthur, feeling hollow, feeling lost as Cobb reaches him, holstering one of the guns to check over him for damage.
“You have to,” says Cobb when he’s done, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, “He’s really with you now, you don’t have to dream anymore.”
Arthur closes his eyes again, tries to block everything out.
“I don’t deserve him, I deserve to be torn apart, I-”
He opens his eyes.
“Arthur,” says Cobb, looking down at him, IV line in his hand. “You’re awake.”
“Can you be sure?” asks Arthur with a wry grin, pulling out his die. “Wouldn’t you be the one who’d rather dream? I- I-
“That wasn’t my projection, was it? I thought it was but. He seemed to know you so well, to know what you want- that’s not something I know.”
Cobb is silent, eyes averted from him. Arthur rolls his die on the coffee table, watches it roll two and sighs.
“What I want to know is, why?” asks Arthur, pocketing the die, pushing Cobb away. He stands up, steps back, putting distance between them.
“Why was that me doing that to you? Why would you give yourself up to me when you- when you never gave me a second glance since I met you five year ago? Since you still treated me like your best friend when you got married, then an associate when you became a fugitive until now- months after your freedom. You haven’t contacted me; you waited until I came so that I could make a fool out of myself! I just. I don’t understand, Cobb.
“Why?”
There’s silence and it feels heavy on their shoulders, swamping the room and the distance between them as if it were tangible.
Arthur’s beginning to regret his visit, regret falling into a dream state with Cobb when he’s still tired and eager to show how much he’s improved from before. He curses his immaturity, how foolish he is and sighs, moves to gather his cases.
As he reaches out for the briefcase, Cobb stops him, fingers curled around his wrist and looking at him with the same open look from the dream.
“I’ve always been in love with you.”
The words cuts through Arthur like a knife.
He tries to form words but they all seem to get caught in his throat.
“From the very start Arthur, from when I first met you when I was engaged to Mal- she knew, she knew but. I love her, Arthur, she was my lover, my other half, she was everything I am but better and everything I’m not. She loved me for my flaws, loved me even though she knew I couldn’t give her my everything because a part of me would always, always belong to you.
“I love Mal and I always will. But she’s gone and I can admit that to myself. That I can’t change the past but I can make the future. I’m in love with you, Arthur.”
“Stop it,” croaks Arthur, shaking his head, “stop it, stop lying.” He can’t believe his ears and he refuses to believe his eyes, to see that kind of sincerity in the depth of those blues. The urge to palm his die and roll it is heavy in his mind but Cobb’s hand is still holding on to him, eyes grounding him to the one place.
“I’m not, I’m not. You saw what happened- how Mal no longer haunts me but you, Arthur, you. I promised myself I would stop inducing dreams but I can’t- I’m selfish, I couldn’t not see you, even if it was just a dream.” Cobb bites his lip, and looks away. “We ended on a good note, right? I didn’t want to ruin that by calling you back.”
“You didn’t want-” repeats Arthur, baffled. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes in an attempt to calm down. “You didn’t want to ruin ‘it’? Cobb, you’re doing a pretty good job of it now.”
“I can’t help myself around you, Arthur,” says Cobb, and his voice, oh, it’s shattering how sad and distressed he sounds, “Sometimes I can’t breathe-”
Arthur surges in for a kiss, cutting him off from continuing.
Cobb’s words break his heart.
When they pull apart, Cobb’s eyes are shut tight. Like if he opens them, Arthur will spit in his face or worse, disappear. Arthur smiles, fingers tentatively stroking Cobb’s cheek.
“You don’t have to help yourself, Cobb, I’m here,” he whispers, marvelling at how Cobb leans into the touch instead of away. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed but while your subconscious was blatant of your feelings, mine wasn’t so secretive either.”
“I remember,” says Cobb, eyes still shut, “those names, I thought they sounded familiar. I wondered why they all came up to me.”
“It’s because I’ve always been in love with you,” murmurs Arthur, laughing quietly, “but you never saw. I never saw. And maybe that means, we’re meant to be.”
Arthur comes to Cobb, months after the inception job, to see him.
Wow, I don't know when I started writing this, like two months ago, maybe, but it's over now. Done and done. A fill for this prompt at inception_kink , beta'd by the loverly obsessionful Title stolen from Reach the Sky's She Really Loved You.
Arthur's nervous.
It's not an unusual feeling when it involves Cobb, but all the same, he's nervous. He doesn't really know what he's doing here, in front of Cobb's door, briefcase in hand and suitcase on his other side by his feet.
His finger is poised above the innocent looking doorbell, a small rectangular box, with a round button slightly above the middle in an off-white colour that could be considered cream but might be because it's been there for a while.
A while.
Cobb's been out of the dream scene for a while, three and half months to be exact. Arthur's been doing jobs by himself, at times with Eames, and others with other extractors, but mostly himself.
He doesn't think he'll be able to stop like Cobb did.
Speaking of which, Arthur looks down at his briefcase, biting his bottom lip. It's not like he needs a reason to visit Cobb, hell, he used to be over every other week before the ‘incident’. But to visit now, when he hasn’t been contacted or invited, to appear without a reason was too much. Arthur wouldn't know how to explain his presence in that scenario, so he has his briefcase which holds papers to a job that he thinks only Cobb can be part of.
He wouldn't trust his life to anyone else.
Shuffling on the doorstep, Arthur rolls his shoulders before pressing the button. He flinches back, as if he's expecting the house to blow up or the doorbell to shoot water in his face, anything but for it to play a happy melody. He wipes his sweating hand on his slacks, wondering if it's too late to run now, he probably could run now, he's fast enough, surely-
"Dad! There's someone at the door!"
Phillipa. That's Phillipa's voice. A rush of emotions overcomes him, making him realise that not only does he miss Cobb, but he misses Phillipa and James as well.
"Who is it? Who iiiiis iiiiiiiiiiit?" calls Phillipa through the door, her laughter like stars twinkling.
"Phillipa, quiet a bit, sweetheart," comes Cobb's voice as the door opens and Arthur is greeted with Cobb's head turned to Phillipa as he talks to her, James cradled against him, legs curled around his waist.
"Look daddy, it's Arthur!" shouts Phillipa, ignoring her father and shooting through the door, holding her arms open up at Arthur.
Arthur can't do anything but oblige, setting his briefcase to lean against the frame of the door and he lifts Phillipa up into his arms, letting her bury her blonde head into the crook of his neck.
"Arthur?" asks Cobb, looking at him in disbelief and Arthur smiles shyly at him.
"Hi, Cobb."
“Hi Arthur!” shouts Phillipa and Arthur turns to look at her, heart swelling.
“Hello, princess.” Phillipa beams widely, giggling loudly as she hugs him around the neck.
“Hi Arthur!” mimicks James, looking at him with wide, blue eyes and Arthur smiles at him. “Hello James.”
“Arthur, what are you...” says Cobb, looking a little lost, and Arthur feels all his hope withering a bit.
“I just- you know, I...”
“Daddy!” shouts Phillipa, turning to Cobb and putting on her best ‘listen to me’ Cobb face, “You can’t talk at the door, you hafta invite the guest in!”
Arthur looks down at her in amusement and Cobb breaks into a small smile.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, you’re completely right. Where are my manners today? Arthur, come in, we’ll talk in the living room.” He turns and walks in, bouncing James in his arms as Arthur sets Phillipa down.
“Arthur, I can help!” she insists, running circles around his legs once, twice. “Can I hold this one?” she asks, small hands clutching his briefcase.
“Sure, princess. When you go in, just set it on the coffee table, would you?”
“Yes sir!” She fires off a left-handed salute and he watches as she dawdles down the hallway and can’t help but feel that even if Cobb turns him away later, seeing this again was worth it. He picks up his suitcase and follows in after, hand automatically pulling the door closed, setting the three locks back in place.
Everything looks the same as it was the last time Arthur was here. He spies the large, pink Unicorn plush he gave Phillipa five months ago watching the TV, and the train set he gave James is sprawled in one of the corners.
Arthur sets his suitcase beside the sofa, thanking Phillipa as she hauls his briefcase onto the coffee table with a flourish before bouncing off elsewhere.
Cobb comes from the kitchen, holding out a juice box looking sheepish. “It’s this, milk or water, and James insisted that you’d be happier with one of his juice boxes instead of the others.”
Arthur accepts it with a grin, and the two of them settle down onto the sofas.
“It’s been awhile,” says Cobb into the silence and Arthur has to laugh at that. How can he not?
“Yes,” says Arthur, fingers playing with the plastic encasing the straw glued to the side of the box. “Three and a half months. 108 days, to be exact.”
“Arthur...” starts Cobb, looking apologetic, but Arthur shakes his head.
“It was a two way road, Cobb. I could have done my best to... well. I’m here now.” He watches Cobb’s face intently for any expression, to see if he’s happy about Arthur’s arrival, but there’s nothing there but a closed off expression. Arthur wets his lips and sets his juice box down on the table before his hands get to his briefcase, turning it around and unlatching it. “I’ve got... I came... there’s this job,” he says finally, lifting up several sheets of paper as if he needs to read what the job entails, like he hasn’t memorised every word for this case scenario.
“A job?” asks Cobb, looking slightly surprised, and Arthur deflates further. It seems everything he says or does never seems to meet Cobb’s stamp of approval and he just wants to run out, maybe. He doesn’t need his cases, right? What’s in there that he can’t replace?
“Yes, it’s not a hard one- but it’s tricky. You’re the... I thought of you when I got it. I thought maybe we could work on this one together.”
“And Eames?”
Arthur frowns and shifts in his seat, he wasn’t expecting Cobb to tell him to get someone else. “I don’t think Eames is the best choice for this job.”
“And why is that?”
“The job... is to extract information from an extractor, Christian Guy Sparks.”
“Arthur,” says Cobb, voice cutting, low in warning. “You’re not telling me that you intend for just me and you to infiltrate Sparks’ mind, are you? Need I remind you what he did to us on the Stein job?”
“He blew our cover by pulling the Mr. Charles act, and making the mark think you were the fake Mr. Charles, I know. But this job pays big, Cobb, it could very well assure you for at least the next twenty years of your life.”
“I don’t need money, Arthur. I have my kids.”
“I know,” says Arthur, voice breaking, and he coughs to hide to brief flash of hurt overwhelming him, “but I also know how many jobs we’ve done, the amount of money you’re holding now, and you’ll have to work again, Cobb, if not now, in fifteen years at least. I’m offering you one job for a month, and twenty years without it.”
Cobb seems to contemplate this, running numbers through his head before looking at Arthur. “Why only the two of us? He knows what we look like.”
“I believe the less people in on this, the better chance of success.”
“Eames would be a gold card in this job, a forger is exactly what we need. We’d also need a projector to go against Sparks’s projections. I don’t think I need to remind you what happened on the Fischer job without one.”
“We won,” says Arthur with a smirk, “but I agree with you on having a forger and a projector. Fortunately, we do have them on the job.”
“But you said it was just you and me...” Cobb trails off, realisation dawning over him and he furrows his brows. “Are you saying you know how to forge and project now?”
Arthur shrugs, shoulders fluid with the movement. “I thought I should pick up some more trade skills now that I work mostly by myself.”
Cobb frowns, leaning forward, elbows on knees as his hands clasp together in thought. It makes Arthur anxious, unable to see what’s going on in Cobb’s head, what he thinks of Arthur now from the small details he has let loose. It wasn’t as though it wasn’t uncommon for an individual dream-sharer to have a set of skills; Cobb himself deals in the art of architecture, extraction and dream layering.
“Show me,” says Cobb, pulling his hands away from his face, “I need to see this before commenting any further.”
Arthur nods, hands going straight to his suitcase where a PASIV device is sitting amongst his clothes, waiting for this moment.
“Just get ready, I need to put Phillipa and James down for a nap.” With that Cobb gets up, brushing past him, and Arthur has to force his eyes not to flutter close at the brief contact, the warmth it sends through him, the familiar scent of Cobb mixed with domesticity.
He gets everything ready with precision and speed, setting up the device on the flat of the table before inserting the Somnacin into the cradle. Wondering how long Cobb wants go under for, he decides two hours in dream time is ample enough and sets the timer for ten minutes. The LED display flashes ‘LOCKED’, and Arthur sits back against sofa, closing his eyes and taking in the sounds of Phillipa and James laughing as Cobb sings them a lullaby.
He can imagine in flashes, the smile on Cobb’s face, stroking back Phillipa’s gold locks, her sleepy blue eyes as she starts to drop off into an untouched dream, and James putting up a fight, playing with his trains underneath the covers until Cobb catches him, setting the toys on a nearby table and kissing his forehead, tucking him in tight, murmuring soft words of love.
Footsteps patter all over the room, checking and double checking that each child is asleep and comfortable before they come closer, ringing louder until a hand touches Arthur’s shoulder and he jumps back, a whole body flinch. His eyes snap open as his fingers curl around the wrist, ready to snap it.
There’s loud panting, and murmuring and Arthur doesn’t realise it, until he does, that he’s the one panting like he’s ran a marathon and Cobb’s hand is lax against his shoulder, calling his name over and over again in a soft tone.
“Arthur, are you okay?” asks Cobb, voice still carrying that soft tone and Arthur pulls his hand back like it’s been burnt, slicking his hair back with the palm and nods, trying to even out his breathing.
“Yeah,” he manages to get out, “sorry, you surprised me. Guess I’m a little tired.”
“We don’t have to do this now,” says Cobb, still looking at him with that worried expression, “you should get some sleep.”
“No,” Arthur shakes his head, “I’m good, honestly.”
Cobb seems to hesitate for a second before he nods, “Okay then,” and sits himself back where he was, settling down.
It isn’t until Arthur is wiping his wrist down with an alcohol pad, reaching for the IV lines, does he realise that Cobb is wearing sweats and a threadbare t-shirt, and Arthur’s face heats with how much nostalgia hits him upon seeing Cobb dressed like that. The nights and days they go through while working together was immense, and they’ve both seen each other at their best and worst.
Back then, they were partners, friends, family.
And now?
They’re not.
“Arthur?”
He looks up from inserting the IV line into Cobb’s wrist and doesn’t realise his eyes feel glassy and he’s not going to be a fucking girl about this. He is not.
He grins. “Just thinking back on the old days, you know? When we used to do this.”
“Arthur,” says Cobb again, and it seems that’s the only thing he can say today.
Arthur pulls away, and sits back against the sofa, hooking himself up. “I hope two hours is enough for you. I was thinking... you could be the dreamer. I’d like- I’d like to see you build again.”
Cobb is silent for two seconds before he nods, and Arthur presses the trigger before reclining.
“What drink would you like, sir?” asks the bartender, blue eyes hiding beneath his lock of blond hair.
“Oh,” says Arthur, blinking, “Blackout Grin. Please.”
The bartender nods, and sets up to making the concoction while Arthur turns in his seat at the bar, eyes taking in the room with its warm ambient glow coming from the chandelier in the middle of the room, reflecting off the mirror ceiling. The room is a cream and musky green with gold details lining the glass-stained windows with Romanesque arches and columns giving in to a polished checker floor.
Little booths instead of tables are pressed close against the wall, white leather seats with a sculpted headboard above them, curls into a divider. The tables encased by the semi-circle seats are glass tables, stabilised by, intricate in detail by simplistic in design, stands, that seem to dig into the floor as if they were tree roots.
“I haven’t done this in a while, so excuse me for being rusty,” says Cobb, appearing beside Arthur in his usual black and white suit, taking a seat.
“I...” starts Arthur, truly speechless. It’s been such a long time since he’s seen Cobb’s architecture, forgot how rich they were in detail and beautiful to look at. “You still got it,” he says, huffing out a laugh.
The bartender sets his drink in front of him, and Arthur nods to him. Cobb declines to order and sits there, letting Arthur take in his design- the sight outside the windows is gorgeous as well, endless city lights twinkling in a sea of darkness.
“Did you want to try...?” asks Cobb, inclining his head to the side and Arthur looks away from the condensation of his glass to nod.
“Eames gave me intensive forgery training though he didn’t want to, but it was easy to bribe him into giving them,” says Arthur, looking up at the mirrored ceiling and taking a deep breath. “First person I could impersonate was him, it was pretty easy to.” He looks down at his lap before back up at the mirror to see Eames looking back at him
“Hello darling,” he says, schooling his voice into Eames’ accent and tone and turning to face Cobb. “Buy you a drink?”
Cobb blinks at him, eyes wide on every opening and Arthur has to keep himself from laughing. He slings an arm around Cobb’s shoulder, bringing their faces close together, “Or could I convince you to a private drink back in my room?”
“Eames,” says Cobb, getting this glint in his eyes, like he’s got the joke, like he’s been connected as the second player of this game. “You have to know that I have to decline that offer.”
“Don’t be shy,” smirks Arthur, picturing Eames’s most arrogant one in his head, eyes slightly hooded for a flirtatious look, “I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Excuse me,” says someone behind them, and Arthur has to pull back to raise an eyebrow at his projection- a tall, dark hair man with green eyes and slight stubble, wearing a suit without the jacket, collar opened slightly, olive tie tucked into his vest with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He turns to Cobb with a smile and asks, “Do I know you? Dominick Cobb, right?”
Cobb raises an eyebrow at Arthur before addressing the projection. “Yes, I am. And you are?”
“Liam White,” says the projection, putting out a hand. “Could I buy you a drink, Mr. Cobb?”
Arthur blinks at his projection’s boldness, wondering what is going on. He recognises the name as well, a fake he used two years ago in the month of May, a job in Milan.
Cobb doesn’t seem to be bothered by Liam’s antics at all and declines his offer with a shake of his head. Liam isn’t shaken off too easily because he takes a seat beside Cobb, putting a hand on his shoulders.
“Is that you, Cobb?” asks another voice, and another man, this time dressed in black skinnies, white button down and suspenders approach them. “It’s Ryan Mixon, remember?”
Another name Arthur recognises, three years, December, a job in Austin.
“Ryan,” snaps Liam, “back the fuck off now.”
“Why don’t you back the fuck off,” says a shorter man, dressed down in a full black suit.
“Daniel Sloan, how nice of you to join the party.”
Daniel Sloan, one and a half years ago, April, a job in Moscow.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Cobb. I’m Stephen Jaime.”
Stephen Jaime, nine months ago, January, a job in London.
“Dom,” interrupts another projection and this time, Arthur is faced with a full projection of himself, wearing an olive suit. “C’mon, let’s get out of this gay bar.”
“Gay bar?” asks Cobb, raising his eyebrows. Projection Arthur scoffs, rolls his eyes and spreads his hand at the whole room.
“Well, that or it’s some strange, homosexually-repressed bar filled with men. Now let’s go, I’ve got a room up on the sixth floor.” As Projection Arthur says this, he slides a hand down Cobb’s side, hand going underneath his black jacket and Cobb jumps in his seat, a flush creeping onto his cheeks.
“Excuse me,” says Arthur still wearing Eames’s face, fuming slightly. What the hell is wrong with his fucking subconscious? “But he’s with me.”
Projection Arthur raises an eyebrow at him and wow, did he always look this bitchy when he does that, and laughs. “I don’t think so.”
Before Arthur can even put a hand on him, all the men that flirted with Cobb crowds him, holding him back.
“Arthur?” asks Cobb, looking confused, but the projection smiles sweetly at him before straddling his lap.
“This is just a dream, Dom,” he says, running hand through Cobb’s hair, “you’re dreaming. You don’t remember how we got here, do you? It’s okay. You have me,” then he leans down to kiss Cobb, hand turning into a fist in his blond hair.
Arthur watches helpless as the projection ravages Cobb, undulating on his lap as he makes noises against his lips. It doesn’t even matter that he’s no longer holding Eames’s face, he can’t budge from the hold his projections have on him, and can’t speak past the hands over his mouth.
“You trust me, don’t you?” whispers Projection Arthur, breaking away from Cobb, licking at his swollen lips. “We don’t have long in this dream, but I’ll do anything you want, Dom. Anything.”
Arthur watches Cobb just melt into the projection’s embrace, arms coming around to loop lovingly around its waist, and he feels something break within him, filling him up with anger, and he recognises the feeling as jealousy.
“What was that, Dom?” asks the projection, snapping Arthur’s attention away from his thoughts. He sees it flick a sly grin in his direction before smiling softly back at Cobb.
“Fuck me,” says Cobb, almost gasping it out, and the bar’s back wall just collapses into a wide arch, an entrance to a gorgeous room with a large bed in the middle, sheets with gold and silver stitching, lamps a glowing hue encased in glass on either side of the bed.
The look on Cobb’s face as he said that; how opened his face looked, his body going lax as the projection guides him to the bed, all those things make something in Arthur crack open. Then he’s struggling wildly, trying to focus, remember the things he learnt from being a projector and hears more than sees the militarised projection he summoned.
One by one his standard projections fall, the cage he’s caught in begins to weaken and he projects his faithful Glock into his hand, burying bullets in the closest projections’ heads. The room is cleared in a matter of minutes, but Arthur knows his subconscious won’t like this.
He can hear them rioting outside.
“Go and take care of them,” he tells his army of one.
He tells himself the reason why it’s only one is because he’s a weak projector, not because he keeps letting his emotions get in the way of his creations. But he knows it’s a lie as he watches his projection of Cobb in an all black tailored suit, wielding his Beretta Px4 in one hand and a H&K USP in the other, run off.
Arthur looks away, reloads his Glock, racking the slide and heads towards the real Cobb.
He walks in, past the arch, and there’s Cobb on the bed, on all fours, pants pooled around his knees, making the most obscene sound with Projection Arthur stroking one hand down his back while the other hand-
Arthur sees red, the feeling in his chest is heavy and he grabs the collar of Projection Arthur, dragging him away from Cobb. He finds that he can’t even say a word, just emit a low growl in his throat before he presses the muzzle of his gun right to its head and pulls the trigger without any second thought.
The projection goes limp in his hold, and Arthur throws it away like garbage.
“Arthur,” pants Cobb, looking confused, looking fucked out, “what.”
“Time to wake up,” says Arthur, not looking at Cobb. His hand tightens on the Glock, and he doesn’t want to shoot Cobb awake, but it doesn’t seem there’s anything around for a kick.
Cobb seems to notice this, asks, “Aren’t you going to shoot me?” and there’s a shuffle of movement, a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.
Arthur shakes his head, tries hard not to shrug Cobb off as his lips press together in a thin line. “I was hoping we could get a kick.”
“Just do it,” says Cobb, guiding the gun to his head. The expression on his face is open, full of trust.
It’s too confronting.
Arthur closes his eyes and pulls the trigger.
Cobb’s body falls against him, a lifeless weight, and he stumbles back, opens his eyes to watch the dream waver and break.
“Arthur! Arthur!” shouts a voice and Arthur turns to see his projection of Cobb running towards him, half turned to shoot, once from the Beretta, twice from the USP. “The dream is collapsing; your subconscious is going wild. Wake up!”
“I don’t want to,” whispers Arthur, feeling hollow, feeling lost as Cobb reaches him, holstering one of the guns to check over him for damage.
“You have to,” says Cobb when he’s done, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, “He’s really with you now, you don’t have to dream anymore.”
Arthur closes his eyes again, tries to block everything out.
“I don’t deserve him, I deserve to be torn apart, I-”
He opens his eyes.
“Arthur,” says Cobb, looking down at him, IV line in his hand. “You’re awake.”
“Can you be sure?” asks Arthur with a wry grin, pulling out his die. “Wouldn’t you be the one who’d rather dream? I- I-
“That wasn’t my projection, was it? I thought it was but. He seemed to know you so well, to know what you want- that’s not something I know.”
Cobb is silent, eyes averted from him. Arthur rolls his die on the coffee table, watches it roll two and sighs.
“What I want to know is, why?” asks Arthur, pocketing the die, pushing Cobb away. He stands up, steps back, putting distance between them.
“Why was that me doing that to you? Why would you give yourself up to me when you- when you never gave me a second glance since I met you five year ago? Since you still treated me like your best friend when you got married, then an associate when you became a fugitive until now- months after your freedom. You haven’t contacted me; you waited until I came so that I could make a fool out of myself! I just. I don’t understand, Cobb.
“Why?”
There’s silence and it feels heavy on their shoulders, swamping the room and the distance between them as if it were tangible.
Arthur’s beginning to regret his visit, regret falling into a dream state with Cobb when he’s still tired and eager to show how much he’s improved from before. He curses his immaturity, how foolish he is and sighs, moves to gather his cases.
As he reaches out for the briefcase, Cobb stops him, fingers curled around his wrist and looking at him with the same open look from the dream.
“I’ve always been in love with you.”
The words cuts through Arthur like a knife.
He tries to form words but they all seem to get caught in his throat.
“From the very start Arthur, from when I first met you when I was engaged to Mal- she knew, she knew but. I love her, Arthur, she was my lover, my other half, she was everything I am but better and everything I’m not. She loved me for my flaws, loved me even though she knew I couldn’t give her my everything because a part of me would always, always belong to you.
“I love Mal and I always will. But she’s gone and I can admit that to myself. That I can’t change the past but I can make the future. I’m in love with you, Arthur.”
“Stop it,” croaks Arthur, shaking his head, “stop it, stop lying.” He can’t believe his ears and he refuses to believe his eyes, to see that kind of sincerity in the depth of those blues. The urge to palm his die and roll it is heavy in his mind but Cobb’s hand is still holding on to him, eyes grounding him to the one place.
“I’m not, I’m not. You saw what happened- how Mal no longer haunts me but you, Arthur, you. I promised myself I would stop inducing dreams but I can’t- I’m selfish, I couldn’t not see you, even if it was just a dream.” Cobb bites his lip, and looks away. “We ended on a good note, right? I didn’t want to ruin that by calling you back.”
“You didn’t want-” repeats Arthur, baffled. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes in an attempt to calm down. “You didn’t want to ruin ‘it’? Cobb, you’re doing a pretty good job of it now.”
“I can’t help myself around you, Arthur,” says Cobb, and his voice, oh, it’s shattering how sad and distressed he sounds, “Sometimes I can’t breathe-”
Arthur surges in for a kiss, cutting him off from continuing.
Cobb’s words break his heart.
When they pull apart, Cobb’s eyes are shut tight. Like if he opens them, Arthur will spit in his face or worse, disappear. Arthur smiles, fingers tentatively stroking Cobb’s cheek.
“You don’t have to help yourself, Cobb, I’m here,” he whispers, marvelling at how Cobb leans into the touch instead of away. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed but while your subconscious was blatant of your feelings, mine wasn’t so secretive either.”
“I remember,” says Cobb, eyes still shut, “those names, I thought they sounded familiar. I wondered why they all came up to me.”
“It’s because I’ve always been in love with you,” murmurs Arthur, laughing quietly, “but you never saw. I never saw. And maybe that means, we’re meant to be.”