Author's Note: This was original written for livejournal's incept_santa exchange.
Warning: This contains character death, and a variety of angst. One day I'll write something happy, I swear!
Robert never dreamt before his father died. At the very least, he never remembered his dreams. He would go to bed, and in what felt like a matter of seconds, he would wake up.
Now he couldn't stop dreaming.
He dreamt of empty cities and snowy mountains, rainy streets and dim hallways. He was running - always running - towards something. He wasn't alone. There were shadowy figures he would pass by. Some reached out hands towards him, while others simply watched from a distance.
Suddenly, there would be a roaring noise and the ground would be torn out from under him. Robert would drop, screaming, towards his death.
He always woke up before impact.
At first Robert wrote the dreams off to stress and grief. In the first few weeks after his father died, he barely slept at all, preferring to reflect on Maurice Fischer's legacy. He barely gave thought to the dreams.
Maurice Fischer was far more loved in death than he had been in life. While his eye for business had been respected and grudgingly admired, he'd made countless enemies and few friends. In death, he became saintlike. All his opponents and naysayers seemed to line up at the door to offer condolences to Robert.
Robert hated them. True, he and his father had never been close, but the man deserved more that false words from men who would have soon as seen his father lose everything.
He barely made it through the funeral. He stuttered his way through the eulogy, and spent the wake sitting and staring blankly ahead of him. Browning stayed by his side the entire time, guiding him through the motions.
"Robert, go home," Browning muttered after another guest had passed them by. "It's been rough for you, and you're exhausted. Get some sleep."
Robert slipped out a side door and stumbled over to his car. When he arrived at his apartment, he didn't bother undressing. He merely slumped over onto his bed. There was something he needed to do, something that his father wanted, but he couldn't remember what it was.
That night, he woke up screaming from his fall.
He returned to the office a few days later. Browning was waiting there, a sheaf of papers in one hand. Plans for the future, he said. He listed off possible takeovers, expansion plans, ideas for more growth. Robert listened. An idea was swirling around in his mind. An idea to make his father proud. There was a buzzing in his ears. He felt as though someone was standing behind him, whispering in his ear, telling him what he should say.
"I know what I need to do," Robert said.
Browning gave Robert a patronizing smile. "Good. I have the names of several prominent - "
"No." Robert said.
The voice in his ear hissed "He wouldn't want that."
"I'm sorry?" Browning said, shooting Robert a sharp glance.
Robert swallowed, then said. "I don't want to expand. I want to dismantle the empire, and start off on my own."
"That's what your father wanted," the voice echoed in his ear.
"It's what my father wanted."
Browning looked as though someone had struck him. "Robert, I know that you've been through a great deal, but you need to think this through. I doubt he would have wanted you to destroy everything he built."
"No. He wanted this. He wanted me to be my own man, not try to be him. And that's why I'll start fresh."
The voice continued to murmur in his ear. "He won't understand. He doesn't trust you, and you shouldn't trust him."
Browning shook his head. "You aren't thinking clearly. You need to get away from all of this. Go someplace nice for a while. I'll manage the company, and when you get back...we'll discuss the future of Fischer Morrow."
"Careful," the voice said. "He's trying to take away your father's company, leave you alone. One last failure."
Robert straightened himself up to his full height. "No. This is my company, and I'll do with it what I see fit."
"You're a damn fool," Browning snarled. "Wasting away an entire empire, you could conquer the world -"
"It's not what my father wanted." Robert said firmly.
Browning glared at him. "I'll fight you on this. Fischer Morrow has been my life, and I won't let you rise to some taunt he left behind!"
That night, Robert once again woke screaming.
After his confrontation with Browning, Robert did not mention dismantling the company for several weeks. He went through the motions of running Fischer-Morrow, pretending that he was his father.
Browning was pleased by his apparent change of heart, and chalked the delusions up to grief. Robert only gave him a tired smile whenever the subject was broached.
"I don't know what I was thinking," he would say, then carry on with whatever he was doing.
He had not been sleeping well. The dreams plagued him every night. He dreaded falling asleep, and he dreaded waking up. He preferred to linger in the dreams, seeking out answers.
After he had woken up, he would make himself coffee and chide himself for obsessing about the dreams. They were simply dreams, and he would not find some mysterious answer in them to all of his problems. Dreams would not drive away the guilt he had.
One night the dreams changed. He made it to wherever he was running towards. His father was there, lying on a hospital bed. Robert rushed towards him, falling onto his knees when he reached his father's side.
His father could barely speak. "I was...was disappointed..."
"I know," Robert said softly. "You were disappointed that I couldn't be you."
Maurice shook his head, gasping. "No...no I was disappointed that you tried."
There was a thunderous sound. Robert felt the ground disappear from under him, and he dropped for what seemed like an age before he woke up crying out for his father.
The next morning, Robert strode into Browning's office. "I've made my decision. My father wanted me to be my own man, and I can't be that while living in his shadow. I've decided to split the company up."
Browning said nothing. For a long moment, he merely looked at Robert. Then he sighed. "Robert, you have to let go of this. I knew Maurice very well. He would die if he knew you were doing this to his pride and joy."
"No, he wouldn't. This is what he wanted for me. Not to be him, but to be myself." Robert said firmly. He was right, he knew it.
"You cannot do this." Browning rose to his feet, eyes blazing. "I will not stand by and watch you destroy this company. You have no idea the sacrifices your father made to create this empire -"
"Yes, I do!" Robert yelled, no longer caring if any passerby heard. "I barely knew him! He sacrificed me for this company. But it doesn't matter now, because I know what he wanted for me!"
"You're a damn fool Robert! If you think I'll let you use this as some means to get back at your father, you're gravely mistaken. I will fight you for this company!"
"I don't want revenge! I want to please him! This will make everything right."
"Get out of my office."
"No." The voice was back. "This is your company, Robert. Do what you want with it."
"No." Robert said quietly. "Uncle Peter, this is my empire now. If you don't want to be part of it, then get out."
Browning looked as though he might strike Robert. Then, he sat back down. "I won't let you do this."
Robert merely spun on his heel and walked out. He needed to get to his own office. There were phone calls to be made, meetings to be scheduled, and an empire to dismantle.
"That's what he wanted," the voice said.
Robert smiled to himself.
When he dreamt that night, he was not alone. A man was at his side, with dark blond hair and a frown etched onto his face. He lead Robert down twisting hallways, checking behind them as if to make sure they weren't being followed.
"Who are you?" Robert asked as the man pushed him into a hotel room.
"I'm Mr. Charles," the man said. "I'm here to protect you."
It was the same voice that whispered to him in his waking hours. Robert wanted to ask what he was protecting him from, but there was a roar and then he plummeted again.
He woke screaming for Mr. Charles that night.
Browning made good on his promise to fight Robert. He began a smear campaign in the newspapers. Headlines proclaimed that Robert was unsound and not fit to lead Fischer - Morrow. They compared it to the recent breakdown that the head of Proclus Global had recently suffered from. In the boardrooms, Browning undercut deals and tried to stop Robert. It had no effect. Robert still sought out ways to dismantle the various parts of Fischer Morrow.
Mr. Charles became a permanent guest in Robert's dreams. Sometimes he would be right next to Robert, guiding him through the hallways or leading him down a snowy mountain. Other times he would float at the periphery of his mind, simply a presence but never interacting with Robert.
The dreams still ended the same way, but the screaming stopped.
His friends had grown worried about him. Despite the time spent dreaming, Robert felt constantly exhausted. He often grew distant, and he could barely focus on the simplest of tasks. He was irritated, snapping at whomever he encountered.
"You're fine," Mr. Charles would say after another frustrated visitor stormed out of Robert's office. "Just focus on what needs to be done."
Robert agreed. He couldn't rest, not until he'd made his father proud. Nothing else mattered besides that.
The battle for Fischer - Morrow grew tougher. Browning fought him on every decision. They would break into fights in the middle of meetings. These fights became well-publicized. Newspapers ran stories entitled "The Fischer Dynasty: What Went Wrong?" Robert's mood swings and apparent fading health were converged on. Clearly, this man was unfit for running a business, the papers said.
Robert felt as though his world revolved around dismantling the empire. His father's dying wish had to be fulfilled. It was all he had, and all he needed.
One evening, as Robert sat hunched over his desk, reading the same line in a memo over and over again, Browning came to visit him.
"Robert, we need to talk."
"I don't want to talk." Robert said, not looking up from his work. Browning still sat down, clearing his throat.
"What on earth made you think that your father wanted this?"
"His will."
"That's impossible. I've read his will, and there's nothing mentioned in there about splitting up the company."
Robert finally looked up. "It was in his alternate will. He never showed it to anyone, but it states that -"
Browning interrupted him, frowning in obvious confusion. "There was an alternate will?"
"Yes," Robert could not contain his grin.
"Can you produce this will?"
There was a moment's pause. Browning repeated himself. "Can you produce this will?"
Robert wished desperately that Mr. Charles was here to tell him what to say. Mr. Charles wouldn't let Browning win this round.
There was nothing but silence.
Browning no longer looked confused. He now wore a look of concern. "Robert, what makes you believe that there was a will?"
Robert thought back. He remembered Mr. Charles telling him one day as he skimmed over the papers.
"They don't know about the alternate will," Mr. Charles had said, smooth as silk. "Your father left it so you could split up the company. It's all taken care of."
Robert looked down at his desk. "Mr. Charles told me."
"Who?"
"Mr. Charles."
"I realized that. Who is Mr. Charles?"
Robert didn't answer. He couldn't answer. He couldn't tell Browning who Mr. Charles was because Mr. Charles didn't exist.
"Well, this explains a great deal." Browning rose to his feet, unable to fully mask a look of triumph. "You're unfit for this position."
"No," Robert said weakly. "I'm not crazy."
"Then bring me the will, or introduce me to Mr. Charles." Browning turned to leave, then looked back at Robert. "This is the proof I need."
He left Robert alone, curled up in his chair. For the first time since his father's death, Robert doubted himself. For the first time, he made himself look at the fact that he'd dreamt up Mr. Charles.
He had been so firm in his knowledge that his father wanted him to split up the company, but what if he'd been wrong? Where had this knowledge come from? Had he ever had any reason to think that this would please his father?
"Mr. Charles?" Robert said to the empty office. "Please. Help me."
No one responded.
Robert spent the next days locked in his apartment. He didn't trust himself to sleep. He did not want to lose himself in dreams. All they had done was destroy him.
Browning had sent him a letter, saying that Robert had two options: admit that he was mentally unsound or Browning would fight to have him declared insane by the state.
"Your father's death clearly upset you," Browning wrote. "I'm so very sorry this happened, but I won't allow you to disgrace your father's name any longer. If you haven't informed of your decision by Thursday, I will be forced to take action."
It was Tuesday. Robert had not slept in three days. He could not stop thinking about his father. He could not do what his father wanted. He was a disgrace of a son.
The Sunday paper was lying in a crumpled mass next to his bed, where it had been discarded earlier. Robert looked at it as though it might contain the answers he needed, and a picture caught his eye.
A man was smiling up at him, happy. It's an awful picture and it's tiny on the page, but Robert recognized the man in an instant.
Mr. Charles.
He nearly ripped the paper as he snatched it up. It's a small article about a man who had been accused of killing his wife. He had been in a coma for a few months, but he had recently died. The man's name was not Charles though. It was Dominic Cobb.
Robert was on the phone in an instant, begging his secretary to find where the funeral was being held. He paced until she called back: it was at Nolan's Funeral Home, and it was tomorrow.
Robert dreamed that night. He was in a gleaming room. Mr. Charles stood at the door and his father was before him.
"I'm so sorry!" Robert said.
His father glared. "You failed at every task I gave you Robert. I'm disappointed in you. I always have been."
Robert screamed. The floor collapsed and he dropped. He came into consciousness screaming again, twisted in sweaty sheets. He had only been asleep for a few hours. Exhaustion threatened to pull him under again. Instead he rose and dressed. He had to find the funeral home. He had to know the truth.
The home was quiet and unassuming. Robert walked down a wood paneled hallway before opening the door to a smaller side room. An old man and two small children were standing near a coffin. The elder man looked at Robert in confusion when he entered.
"Why are you here?"
Robert gestured to the coffin. "I came to pay my respects."
"I understand that," the man said. "But what made you come?"
"I needed answers. It's confusing, but I..."
The door opened behind him. Robert turned to see three people had entered. One was a dark haired man in a sharp suit. He was accompanied by a young woman and a rumpled-looking man. All three stared at Robert with undisguised shock.
The dark haired man was the first to respond. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Robert raised his hands and took a step back. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to intrude."
"You shouldn't be here," the man snarled. "Miles, get the kids out of here."
The older man nodded, before taking the children's hands and leaving the room quickly.
The young woman stepped forward. "How did you find us?"
"It was in the paper," Robert said. "I think there's been some mistake..."
He was cut off by the dark-haired man grabbing the front of his jacket and slamming him against a wall. "How dare you come after us during his funeral!"
"I'm not here to hurt you! I just had to see..."
"See what? See what it cost us?"
"Let me go!"
The rumpled man from the back said "Perhaps we should just shoot him Arthur. Be a lot easier and we wouldn't have to watch our backs from here to eternity."
Robert struggled violently against his attacker. "Please! I didn't want to harm you, I just came because I need the truth!"
"You know the truth." Arthur said, shaking him. "That's why you're here. So, is this revenge, or blackmail, or what?"
"I need to know if he's Mr. Charles!"
Arthur released him, and took a few steps back. The man in the back said "What the hell is going on here?"
Robert did not stop to respond. He turned and ran towards the coffin. He didn't understand what these people wanted, nor what they were talking about. All he knew was that he needed to see whether his Mr. Charles was the recently deceased Dom Cobb.
Robert looked into the coffin. Mr. Charles was lying inside, peaceful. There were no marks on his body, no sign that he had died. It was almost as if he was dreaming, separate from the world.
"I don't understand." He said softly. "I dreamt of him."
Cobb's friends were silent. The young woman took a step forward. She looked at Robert with a strange mix of fear and pity.
"Do you know who we are, Mr. Fischer?"
"No. I just know him." It made no sense. Robert couldn't breathe. "I've never met this man before. I've never met this man before, but I've been dreaming about him. He's been talking to me. Why do I see him?"
The woman looked like she might cry. "I'm so sorry," she said.
Robert took a step back. "What did you do to me? What did he do?"
Arthur spoke up. "Just go."
"No!" Robert roared. "I have been through hell! I haven't slept, I can barely think! I've lost everything! Tell me what is going on!" Pointing at the coffin, he screamed "Who is he?"
"His name was Dom Cobb," Arthur said quietly. "He's been in a coma for the past six months. He died three days ago."
"Why is he in my head?"
"This is absurd," the man in the back muttered. "We're not going to get him to listen to reason."
"I need to know, please," Robert said. His eyes flicked to each person in turn. "I'm going crazy. I need to solve this."
Arthur shook his head. "We can't help you, I'm so sorry."
He looked again at the casket, then turned and left. The other man shot Robert a look full of pity before turning and following his companion.
The young woman was the only one left. Robert stared at her, begging for answers. "I just need to know."
"I'm so sorry," she said, tears spilling over. She turned and fled through the door.
Robert hesitated a moment before tearing after her. He ran through the door and saw a white car pull away, heading away from the home. He climbed into his car and drove after them.
Images danced before him - snow, rain, Mr. Charles, a pinwheel, his father, Dom Cobb in his coffin, the woman crying, an empty city - and he could not focus on the road. He did not know what he was doing. There was nothing. He had failed as a son. He was haunted by a dead man he never knew. He was going to lose his company. He was alone.
Robert was screaming inside his mind as he followed the car onto an overpass. He'd find answers though, and maybe he wouldn't be alone. He'd bring his life together, if only he knew why he was so broken.
Maybe then he would find a way to make his father proud.
He did not notice that he was in danger until the crash.
In the few moments that Robert had lost awareness of his surroundings, he lost control of the wheel. He crashed into the barrier going at a high speed. He spun, then flipped, flying over the edge, and suddenly he was falling, but it was a dream, only a dream, he would wake up...
He was on a beach. It was so peaceful here.
Robert looked out at the waves. He had a strange sensation that he was supposed to be somewhere, but it did not truly matter.
Mr. Charles was walking towards him, arm in arm with a beautiful woman. He stopped when he saw Robert, then he walked towards him.
"Are you going to stay?" he asked.
Robert smiled.