Archive of Our Own ^beta

title: last night i nearly died (but i woke up just in time)
rating: pg13 (for language)
summary: fischer employs cobb and his team to find out what secrets were extracted from his mind. it's up to everyone to fight their own corner and ensure that fischer doesn't find out what secrets were planted there.

it's a story of alternate endings (that are beginnings) and choose-your-own-adventure (except it is already chosen).

(title from duke special's song of the same name.)
word count: 4700-ish.

for apiphile on the occasion of her birthday.

Eames likes the cold. He likes snow. He has spent long enough in the sweaty heat of Mombasa and longer still in the temperate climates of London SW that it stands to reason that his dreams are snowdrifts and avalanches and thermal underwear. Freud would have a field day.

They are at the summit and Fischer is circling the safe, incongrously built into the corner of a delapidated stone hut.

Eames knew that Fischer would choose this path. It has been glaringly obvious all along. From the start of this whole debacle, Eames knows, unerringly, that Fischer trusts him least of everyone and he does not even know how Eames wore Browning’s face like a Scooby-Doo phoney, but with entirely more conviction. Oh, if it wasn’t for those meddling kids.

At this stage, Eames can tell what Fischer thinks of each member of their motley, marvelous crew. He has been watching him, of course, mimicking him and his concern, all angles and cheekbones, behind his back. It has been worth it to see Ariadne crack a smile.

He knows what Fischer thinks: Cobb is principled. Ariadne is naïve. Arthur plays everything by the book. Yusuf is no criminal mastermind.

That leaves Eames and Eames, as ever, is the last man standing. He has the most highly honed sense of self-preservation, after all. Perhaps Fischer could appreciate this, even in the midst of an addled dream, and that is why they are standing here, on the pinacle of some great dream-mountain where the air is thin enough to make Eames breathless. It would not do to die here at all and it would be all too shaming to die of altitude sickness while plunging to such depths. Eames smiles, bloodstained and slightly manic. He is in his element when improvising, when twisting the facts just-so, altering the entire complexion of this dream-state shit-storm.

He takes a deep breath. It is all going to his head and he fights not to giggle.

Fischer looks annoyed. He kicks the safe and growls with frustration. He turns to Eames and gestures with his gun. “You’re lying.”

Eames shrugs. He is smug and infuriating. They have pulled it off. He does not expect Fischer to shoot him before shooting the safe door wide open.

“You were involved with Saito’s espionage, weren’t you?” Fischer jabs his gun.

Eames holds his hand against his abdomen. Thoughts are fractured. Fischer is swearing. Fischer knows but he does not know. Extraction. Inception. It’s all a myth. The safe is empty. There are no secrets here. Blood feels warm and woozy and je ne regrette rien. Thank fuck. He regrets nothing. It’s a fair cop. He can hold on, he is sure of it; or else he will go straight to Limbo. Do not pass Go. Do not collect the Fischer millions. He can hold on.

(Last one in is a rotten egg.)

(Splat.)

Once upon a time.

Everyone has settled back into their normal lives (or as normal as they can be). Cobb has children to raise and school runs and spilt milk and homework to deal with. Ariadne has a thesis to write and it will be a thesis of such invention and innovation that she will be headhunted by architecture firms and universities throughout the world. Yusuf has returned to Mombasa, like the good shepherd, herding his flock of dreamers. Saito has returned to the path to world domination and Arthur? Well, Arthur is pointing or manning or doing whatever it is he does when he is not in Eames’ direct line of vision.

Thus charmed by the mental image of Arthur as an English Pointer, Eames turns his attention back to the job at hand. It is a simple heist, rooted in real-world forgery, where his face is his face is his face and, alas, his slight paunch and poor posture are becoming increasingly difficult to disguise.

He sits on the steps of the National Gallery and waits for the alarm to go off. He is pleasantly surprised when it doesn’t, when his colleague, for want of a better word, sits down next to him.

“You got it?” he asked.

“Piece of piss.”

“And the replacement?”

“Looks pretty shiny. You do some good work, man.”

“The best,” says Eames, sharply.

You can offload the merchandise?”

“Bloody hell, you always talk in heist movie cliché?”

His companion shrugs. “Don’t you ever like to get into the spirit of it all?”

Eames smiles slowly. “Give me the damned painting, Percival. Your cut will be at the drop-point.”

Diarmuid Percival shrugs and stands up, wiping his trousers down. “I haven’t sat in pigeon shite, have I?”

“Bugger off, Percival, there’s a good man.”

“Sixty per cent?”

“I’ll give you sixty-five if you take your good self away from these premises.”

Percival leaves. Eames picks up the bag left behind and pulls down his woolly hat and now he looks like any wannabe artist leaving the National Gallery for the day.

Eames doesn’t need to do this, not anymore. He has made his millions or, at least, hundred-thousands. The world of dreams is lucrative but, every so often, a collector of seventeenth century Dutch art will come along and Eames will be hard-pressed to decline.

He knows, intellectually, that some day he’ll come a cropper. He really doesn’t think that it will be today, though. When he is ushered into a black car with black tinted windows by men wearing black suits, he thinks that National Gallery security has been watching too many American spy movies.

It’s not about the painting, of course. It’s about Fischer.

.

Arthur knew all along that Fischer would choose this option. It is only too clear what the man thinks of them all. Cobb may be the best extractor and Eames the best forger but Arthur does his homework. Even while Fischer has been keeping them all under close scrutiny, Arthur has managed to acquire plenty of information about the man.

Oh, he knows that Fischer is still grieving for the loss of a father who, in all honesty, did not care much for his son. He knows that Fischer is angry at the choice he thinks he made. He is still one of the richest twenty-somethings in the world, though not at the same level as the dot-com billionaires who are barely out of diapers. Arthur sometimes wonders if he should have studied computer science instead of neuroscience. His life might have been so much simpler and infinitely more boring which cannot be a bad thing given his current situation.

Now they are kneeling in front of a bank vault and Fischer’s gun is at the back of Arthur’s head and mental arithmetic only goes so far; Arthur cannot afford to die. He has no desire to go to Limbo. The very idea scares him. He is no architect. Unconstructed dream-space might remain unconstructed for as many days or months or centuries he spends there or else it will be Penrose steps for an eternity. No, that will not do.

He takes deep breaths and catalogues his status. Second level, no problem. One choice of many. The responsibility rests on his shoulders. It is just as well he has impeccable posture. Gun to his head. Uncomfortable but not fatal. Bank vault containing no secrets. That’s the problem. They have reached a dead end and deliberately so. It’s an inspiring solution to a difficult problem but he cannot predict Fischer’s response.

For all of his careful research, Arthur is faced with uncertainty and he hates it

“Open it,” Fischer says.

Arthur does so. It is empty. It is blessedly, blessedly empty. God bless Cobb and the scrupulous training he put them through.

Fischer is bewildered. He is not angry. Not yet. He pushes Arthur to the side and all but climbs into the vault, touching the insides, looking for some secret compartment or anything that belies the strange truth that Arthur ____ is devoid of secrets.

Arthur brushes himself off. Even in dream, he does not like to be overly rumpled.

Finally, Fischer emerges. His cheeks are spots of red rage and his eyes are flashing. Not for the first time, Arthur understands that Fischer is a dangerous person, even here, two levels down in Arthur’s natural habitat. Oh, but now Arthur understands another thing; Fischer does not play by the rules.

“Deeper!” Fischer growls.

“Can’t be done,” says Arthur. Economical. Upright.

Fischer can wave that gun all he likes. If he kills Arthur, the dream collapses and they both stand to lose far more than they can possibly gain from this situation .

“You are in my dream,” says Arthur. “If there are secrets, they are here. We go deeper, it gets … more dangerous.”

“Your team is the best,” says Fischer. His voice is shaking.

“We are,” Arthur says. His voice is even, unwavering.

“Saito would have used the best.”

“From what I’ve heard, that’s correct.”

“Then why didn’t he use you?” Fischer is becoming more and more frustrated.

“I don’t know,” says Arthur, advancing on Fischer very slowly, as though he is a horse that might be spooked.. “Look, Robert, can we just-?”

Oh, he is spooked. Arthur doesn’t see it coming. He clamps his hand over his neck; hot blood spurting. Arthur hates to die. The ground shakes beneath their feet. Arthur does not know if he can hold on. Je ne regrette rien.

“You were involved with Saito’s espionage, weren’t you?” Fischer jabs his gun.

Arthur’s eyes are wide. He can’t talk because there is too much blood. Fischer knows but he does not know. Extraction. Inception.

Arthur regrets nothing. His life is in order. Limbo beckons.

(Come on in – the water’s fine!)

It is a truth, universally acknowledged.

Arthur does not have a day job. He is always preparing and always prepared. He has a bolthole on every continent (except Antarctica, though Eames refuses to accept this). Paris is his favourite. In springtime, yes, and in winter, when it sometimes snows.

Arthur likes cemeteries. Arthur knows that when the dream is done, there will be peace. By rights, his mind has been alive and hyperfunctioning for forty years and he is only thirty-one. His mother would say that he was born forty. He has always been precise.

It is not a failing, contrary to popular belief. Arthur plays by the rules. It means he knows how to break them. It means he knows when he is being followed by men in blacks suits and in a black car and it is just so glaringly obvious.

He does not allow himself to be taken. He chooses it. He is being followed at a sedate pace by people who are sensible enough not to open fire in the middle of Paris. He doesn’t put up a fight.

Arthur bides his time. Watches. Absorbs. It is galling that he is apparently the one with no imagination when these men play everything by the book. They are in a hotel room. Three stars, if not four. He is allowed to watch television but they do not allow him to be alone at any point in case he attempts to contact his ‘associates’. As though Arthur would do anything so foolish. Nevertheless, it is highly discomfiting not to be allowed privacy in the bathroom.

Robert Fischer makes an appearance on the fifth day of Arthur’s very civilised incarceration.

He explains his concerns, clearly and concisely. Arthur is very understanding. He is less understanding when the subject of Dominic Cobb is raised. Cobb has already been taken in.

Arthur’s eyes widen. (Doesn’t Fischer know that Cobb has children who have missed him desperately? Children who, only now, are beginning to know their father and grow beyond the death of their mother. Has Fischer no heart?)

Arthur’s eyes widen and that is all that can be divined of his feelings on the matter.

Cobb is the best extractor on the planet. Fischer is entirely confident that he can tempt or bribe or blackmail him back into practice.

Arthur cannot argue.

Fischer takes out a cell phone and puts it in front of Arthur.

“Call the girl. We’ve already got the Englishman.”

Arthur looks up at Fischer.

“Do I have a choice?”

.

Yusuf did not sign up for this. Not ever. He has a degree in pharmacology. He is not an extractor or an architect or a damned ninja.

He is at home, in Mombasa, with his dreamers, except that this is the dream. He cheerfully curses Eames and Cobb as he watches Fischer prowl between the supine forms of these sleeping projections. Are they projections? Yusuf was never sure of that. He does not like this, though. He does not like being in dreams at the best of times. He is the bloke who stays in the car. He’s the getaway driver. He’s not bloody James Bond.

When this is over (and Yusuf has every expectation of it being over once Fischer realises that Yusuf knows nothing), Yusuf is going back to Mombasa. He’s going back to the real Mombasa that doesn’t shake and shudder with every exhalation and vibration of some other dream-world.

Fischer thinks that Yusuf is stupid and Yusuf, surprisingly, is fine with that. There is not much time left. He estimates that there are maybe four minutes before the song starts playing and they all go back to their everyday hum-drum lives. Yusuf thinks he might get an orchid or a puppy or something to tend lovingly every day so that he doesn’t have to think about this shit.

Fischer stalks back to him.

“Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“Don’t play dumb with me.” Fischer shakes his gun in Yusuf’s face and it is not deja-vu. This has never happened to Yusuf before. He leads a quiet life. Even his dreams are boring, as a rule. Sometimes he falls in his dreams and he’s sure that is supposed to be good luck. “The safe, you moron!”

“I don’t have a safe!”

Fischer scowls. “Then where do you keep your secrets?”

Yusuf may not be a professional dreamer but even he knows that there is no such thing as dream by numbers.

He smiles broadly, the better to keep Fischer unsettled. He steps back and raises his hands, indicating the dreamers. “These are my secrets,” he says. “I facilitate the dream.”

“You were involved with Saito’s espionage, weren’t you?” Fischer jabs his gun.

Yusuf’s blood runs cold which is strange because it is hot now, rushing over his fingers as he clamps them against his thigh. Arterial blood, spurt after spurt. Yusuf does not know how to do this. He does not know how to die in dreams with any dignity or grace. Je ne regrette rien.

Fischer knows but he does not know. Extraction. Inception. Yusuf is terrified of what Limbo might hold.

(Knock-knock. Who’s there?)

It was the best of times.

Yusuf feels safe. For the first time in weeks, he feels as though everything might turn out for the best. He still feels guilty for taking Cobb’s share of the money but Cobb does not need the money. His only reward was seeing his children again. Yusuf respects that.

Yusuf considers what he will spend his money on. More comfortable beds for the dreamers, perhaps. More compounds to play with. He does so love to dabble in hypnotics and psychotropic drugs. Yusuf could cure cancer, that’s what Eames always says.

Cancer is difficult. Yusuf knows this because he nursed first his father and then his mother, watching every day as they grew thinner, as the long muscles in their thighs wasted away to nothingness and as their skin grew taut over their cheekbones. He cannot cure cancer. It is all genes and molecules and unpredictability.

The human mind is unpredictable too but its response to certain stimulants and depressants is so enticing and intriguing that Yusuf is addicted. He has no taste for drugs. He smoked a joint in college once, having had rather a lot of brandy, and it left him sitting on a roof in his underwear. It was November in Leeds. Never again. Yusuf still likes the occasional glass of champagne though.

He can afford to drink champagne now. Every day, if he so chooses.

He weaves his way between the rickety buildings, through the narrow lanes. He knows just where he is going to spend his first five hundred shillings.

Of course, Yusuf doesn’t see it coming. He is not adept at reading crowds. He is excellent with person, the singular, and minds, the multiple, but the seething masses of the awake are not his forte.

He is bundled into the black car by the men in black suits before he knows quite what is happening. Then, he is on a plane to God knows where and he knows precisely who is to blame.

Yusuf is no coward, though, and he gives nothing away. Eames has been loyal to him over the years and Yusuf isn’t about to betray that trust at the first sight of a bribe. He has scruples.

He is brought to London and there is Eames, unshaven and wrinkled.

“What happened to you? Dragged through a hedge backwards?”

Eames scowls. “Bugger off, Yusuf. We have a problem.”

They are left alone which is unexpected. Somehow, through the means of sign language and Eames’ godawful Swahili, Eames manages to convey to Yusuf that in the bag at his feet, there is an original Avercamp that needs to be offloaded sometime in the next forty-eight hours.

“No, my friend,” says Yusuf, putting his feet up. “You have a problem.”

That is when Fischer comes in, followed by Arthur and Ariadne.

.

Ariadne loves to dream. Her days are spent buried in books that teach her about physics and lines and art and then she can immerse herself in dreams and undo everything she has ever learned.

She loves to rebuild. This entire venture has been her idea. The problem was intriguing, in an academic sense though she is still a little miffed that Saito never mentioned that he owned a sizeable share of Fischer-Morrow before that first job.

Nevertheless, there was more than Saito’s professional reputation at stake. Cobb’s legal status might be under review, at the very least, and Ariadne loved a challenge.

The plan was simple, in a way. Fischer believed that some skilled individual had extracted his plans to dissolve Fischer-Morrow. He had coralled Cobb’s entire team and it seemed to be pure coincidence. Fischer wanted the best extractor in the world and that is Dominic Cobb. Cobb’s job is to find out what information was removed and, ideally, who did it.

This is where it becomes complicated. Now that Fischer has inadvertently assembled the original team, they are all in danger. They all know too much.

It is important that Fischer feels he has control of the situation, which is why Ariadne has designed multiple second levels, depending on Fischer’s choice. Eames is on a mountain-top and Arthur is in a bank. Yusuf is in pseudo-Mombasa because that is where he is comfortable and Ariadne is in faux-Florence. Cobb is his own home, after a fashion.

Ariadne did not expect that Fischer would choose her but he has. They are walked through the marked at San Lorenzo, or thereabouts. It is summer-time and they are walking towards the Baptistry.

Ariadne’s dream is thick with projections. Perhaps that is why Fischer seems so nervous and edgy.

“Tell me what you know,” says Fischer, his lips close to Ariadne’s ear.

“You didn’t need to bring me into a dream to ask me that,” says Ariadne. She doesn’t mean to be coy. Fischer doesn’t like it. He jabs his gun into the small of her back. Ariadne bites back an entirely inappropriate laugh (is that a gun in your pants or are you just pleased to see me?).

“I know, Ariadne,” says Fischer. He looks momentarily confused or sad, as though he did not mean for it to reach this point. “You were involved with Saito’s espionage, weren’t you?” Fischer jabs his gun.

Ariadne thinks she might be safe in this crowd. She is wrong. Fischer pulls the trigger. The pain is excruciating but Ariadne is relieved. Fischer knows but he does not know. Extraction. Inception.

Je ne regrette rien. Almost there. Ariadne will not die, not in this dream. She is determined. She is not ready for Limbo.

(All aboard.)

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.

Ariadne is happy. She has submitted her thesis and she will be defending it shortly but for now she is free to explore Paris, to absorb inspiration from every street corner and balcony and café.

She will meet Arthur later and they will talk about dreams or she will talk about dreams and Arthur will be evasive, as though he could be remotely convincing. They both know that she will return to dream-sharing. It’s too much to give up. It’s always too much.

When her phone rings, she grins. The ringtone assigned to Arthur is the James Bond theme tune.

“Arthur, you can’t cancel, you know that, right?”

“Ariadne, we have a problem.”

Ariadne stops dead, right there on the street corner, even though the pedestrian lights are telling her to go.

“What’s happened?” she asks. Is it Cobb? Is it Eames?

“It’s Fischer. He wants to employ us.” Arthur pauses. Ariadne can tell that he is choosing his words carefully (as ever). “He believes that-” There is a muffled voice in the background. She can hear Arthur say something like yes, but I have to tell her what-. Arthur sighs. “Look, Ariadne. Go back to your apartment. There’ll be a black Beamer parked out front. Get in the car. They’ll bring you to London. We can explain when you’re here.”

“My thesis defence is in two weeks,” says Ariadne, her voice slightly tremulous.

“This will be over by then.”

Ariadne hopes that she is imagining Arthur’s grim tone.

All the way to London, she tries to figure out what might be going on. Fischer is involved. This is a job. There is no choice but to take it, it seems. The men in black suits have taken her cell phone and her laptop. They are only letting her keep her book because they have checked through it carefully. Ariadne does not think that there is any technology invented thus far that would allow her to communicate with the world using only the words of Daphne du Maurier. Who is she to judge? She has already known enough of paranoia and men with more money than sense.

She is brought to Arthur’s hotel room. She moves to give him a hug but they are restrained. Arthur rolls his eyes but that is the only evidence of his irritation.

“They have Cobb.”

Ariadne’s stomach plummets to the vicinity of her feet.

.

Cobb is at home. It is an empty dream-home. Fortunately, he has trained himself to send any lingering projections of his children and their grandparents far away. He does not want Fischer ever to see what James and Philippa look like. He does not think that Robert Fischer is the sort of man to hurt small children but he does have a strange gleam in his eyes. Crazy. Crazed.

There is a safe in the bedroom. Cobb misses Mal. At this point, Cobb even misses his projection of Mal. He likes to think that she would have taken care of Fischer by now. Cobb doesn’t know when he became so ruthless. Perhaps it is a result of making Saito’s acquaintance. He grits his teeth. Saito will have a lot to answer for if they survive this madness.

“You are the best extractor in the world,” says Fischer.

Cobb shrugs. “I certainly think so.”

“Have we met before?” asks Fischer. “You look familiar.”

“I don’t think so,” says Cobb. His face and his voice are perfectly passive and peaceful. He modulates his tone so that he sounds utterly plausible. He is not a forger like Eames but he knows enough of the minds of men to know how to soothe and guide and suggest.

“No. We have.” Fischer is insistent as he follows Cobb through to the tiny study that overlooks the garden. Cobb gestures at the safe. “Is that what you’re looking for? You won’t find anything, except maybe my late wife’s totem.”

If Cobb is hoping to elicit some sympathy from Fischer, it does not work.

“Open it.”

Cobb is opening the safe, turning through the combinations, considering dreaming up a gun or some explosive device. He is not ready for what happens next. The gun at the base of his skull, pressing, painful.

“You were involved with Saito’s espionage, weren’t you?” Fischer jabs his gun. Again and again.

Cobb raises his hands above his head. “What makes you say that, Robert?”

“You are the best extractor around. Why would Saito go to anyone else to find out about the future of the company?”

Fischer knows but he does not know. Extraction. Inception. Cobb heaves a sigh of relief and Fischer shoots him, just left of his spine, shattering some ribs and Cobb can only hope that he can keep it together. Je ne regrette rien. What’s the worst that can happen? Limbo. Cobb knows Limbo well. They are old friends.

(Come in out of the cold, dear.)

In a Galaxy, far, far away.

Cobb likes the boring life. He does. It is quiet and it is peaceful. Perhaps not at five o’clock in the morning but that is only because James has not yet learned the value of normal sleeping patterns.

Cobb makes breakfast for the kids and prepares their packed lunch while they argue over who got more marshmallow in their cereal. Mal would have had a fit. American breakfast cereals were on her shit-list and no mistake. Of course Cobb still misses Mal and of course he still feels responsible for her death but now that he is home and bringing up their children, he can think fondly of her again.

He drives Philippa to school and James to pre-school with promises to see them later on, though their grandmother is to collect them today.

Dominic Cobb is content.

He should have known that was a sure-fire sign of trouble.

He notices the tail when he is pulling out of the parking lot at the bank. He takes the scenic route to the grocery store and he is followed every inch of the way. These are no masters of subtlety though they are difficult to shake. He leaves the grocery store and heads straight for the highway. Full speed ahead. It is foolish of him to think that he has lost them. When he pulls into his driveway, there is a black car sitting there. Two men in black suits leaning against the hood.

“Is there a problem?” he asks.

“We would like you to come with us, Mr Cobb.”

“My mother always told me never to accept lifts from strangers.”

That is when Robert Fischer gets out of the car. “Mr Cobb. My name is Robert Fischer. Now we are not strangers.”

Cobb has no choice.

.

They wake up. They look at each other. There is no sign of Fischer.

“I’m going bloody home and no one can bloody stop me.” Yusuf yanks out the cannula and gets to his feet.

“I’ve to get back to Paris-”

“The children-”

“The fucking painting.”

“What just happened? Did we win?”

“I think we won, darling.”

It is dark outside. Eames has ten hours to deliver the painting. Yusuf has eight hours before his flight. Cobb has sixteen hours before his flight. Ariadne has the better part of two weeks before her thesis defence. Arthur has all the time in the world.

He takes out his Blackberry to arrange an appointment with Saito. Arthur wants answers.

"What was the point of it?" asks Ariadne, bewildered.

"Revenge? Who knows? He's gone and that's it."

"We made it."

The uncertainty. They all look at each other. Discreetly find their totems. Extraction. Inception.

“Anyone for a nightcap?”

Cheers.

(And they all lived.)