Author's Notes, 4/20/2019: I recently rewatched the film, and I realized I still had story bits to tell. My goal is to finish this story and add to others over the next few months.
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"I'm exhausted," Ariadne said as she flopped down on the bed in the other room. "Who knew getting stalked and then kidnapping in reality was so tiring? It's so much easier in dreams."
"This job is always full of surprises," Arthur shrugged as he sat down and started unlacing his shoes.
"What do you think you're doing, darling?" Eames stood in the doorway, his body angled against the doorpost. "What makes you think you two get the only other bed?"
"Because I'm tired and I'm the only girl and you're not going to make me sleep on the sofa," Ariadne replied. She gave Eames her sweetest smile. "And I'm not sleeping with you."
"You would be if I had gotten to you before our dear Point Man," Eames tried to look smug, but he mainly glared at Arthur.
"Would you?" Arthur asked Ariadne, seemingly unperturbed. "If I hadn't called you after the job, you would have hooked up with Eames?"
Ariadne pretended to think hard. "Maybe . . . if I was drunk. And I had to do it for a job. And we were the last people on earth and we had to restart the human race. Maybe then we'd hook up."
"It's far too late for anything to be taken seriously," Eames shrugged. "And you're hardly my type."
"What? Beautiful and graceful isn't your type?" Arthur challenged. "Stylish and funny and smart aren't for you?"
"It's okay," Ariadne put a hand on his arm. "Eames is just being Eames. And thanks for putting smart last. Glad to know my brains weren't going to be a barrier between us."
"Enough grumbling, loves," Eames smirked. "Let's talk to the Boss Man before we tuck the two of you in for the night."
They left the second bedroom to find Cobb sitting on the sofa in the living room. He had his totem in his hand, twisting the tiny spinning top between his forefinger and thumb.
"This is reality," Arthur sat on one of the chairs and stifled a yawn. "Reality and we're very tired. Good grief, it's past four. Why couldn't Fischer have his mental breakdown during the day?"
"Because night makes everything worse," Ariadne sat down in the chair, half on Arthur's lap and leaned against his chest. "You think the darkness will never end and you do terrible things that you regret in the morning light."
"Heavens, who did you kill?" Eames looked aghast.
"It was an all-night rave after my boyfriend broke up with me," she relaxed her face as Arthur brushed his hand over her hair. "My friends had to carry me home and put me to bed. I couldn't walk the next day without having vertigo. I was nineteen, but apparently fifteen jello shots were too many."
"Thank you, Miss Too Much Information," Eames gave her a mock bow. "Other than knowing to lock the mini-bar when you're here, we have discussed nothing important so far. We got Fischer to the hotel. He'll be sick a day or two, but on the third day, he's going to bolt from here. Any bright about ideas about how to deal with our lovely boy? Other than bodily threats which everyone seems to oppose so vehemently. Honestly, do you only believe in torture in dreams?"
"We're not torturing him," Cobb pocketed his totem. "Torture has two outcomes: mental devastation that turns the subject into a dependent mess or limitless rage that seeks vengeance. The second outcome does us no good, and the first requires desensitization on the torturer's part which I just don't have. I will invade people's dream, but not hurt them in reality."
"So we're back to making him our friend," Arthur rubbed his fingers into the base of Ariadne's skull. She gave a sigh of relief and closed her eyes.
"So we can all hold hands and braid each other's hair," Eames said. "Maybe we can have play-dates after school while our mummies bake cookies for us?"
"That's it," Cobb sat up. "You're right, Eames. I'm bringing my kids here."
Ariadne's eyes flew open and she sat up. "Are you crazy?"
"You want to bring James and Philippa here?" Arthur was incredulous. "To the hotel room of the man we kidnapped, the man that we tricked for millions of dollars?"
"Don't expect the Father of the Year award," Eames shook his head.
"No, this will work," Cobb stood. "Positive emotion over negative emotions, every time. We can't bully Fischer. We can't bribe him. We can't even hope to get away now. He's here and he's vulnerable right now. We take care of him and we don't hurt him and he sees the kids here and realizes that we have families and that we're real people, not monsters."
"Because that's what Fischer wants," Eames nodded along. "He wants a family, after losing his. Lord knows he must be lonely."
"It's worth a shot," Cobb said.
Ariadne stared at Cobb hard. "This is why you're so good, isn't it? You can read people very, very well."
"Don't compliment him too much," Eames said. "We want him to be able to fit his head through the door."
"I'm going home," Cobb reached for his jacket. "I'll call around eleven tomorrow morning. It's Sunday tomorrow so the kids are free all day. We'll be here around noon. When Fischer wakes up, give him food and more drugs. Keep him in bed."
"Will do," Eames gave a mock salute. As Cobb left, he glanced at Arthur and Ariadne. "I guess I have to sleep on the sofa."
"You could go home," she suggested.
"No, you two love birds don't have the nerve to stand up to Fischer if he becomes a bigger problem. I'll stay to keep pretty boy in line."
"I could handle him," Arthur insisted.
"You called us to come deal with him. No, don't argue, darling. Take your Sleeping Beauty to bed, and leave the tough work to the professionals."
Arthur might have argued further, but Ariadne stood up and tugged at his hand. They stumbled to the bedroom and shut the door.
"Perfect," Eames got on the sofa and stretched his legs out in front out him. "Stuck with a bunch of lovebirds and a germy billionaire who would get into all sorts of foolishness without me. I swear, Eames, old boy, I think you actually like saving these people from themselves."
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Robert became gradually aware of the fact that he was awake. His head ached and he didn't want to open his eyes. His bed felt different, but the soreness in his throat and his raw sinuses kept him from paying much attention to how the sheets felt.
He finally pried his eyes open to see morning light lingering through the window. A hotel room. A five-star hotel room with too many bed pillows and an over-stuffed chair.
"Hello?" he called out hesitantly. It hurt his throat and he felt so groggy and exhausted which made no sense because he had been asleep which was supposed to make him well-rested, but he felt all yucky and –
"You're awake," Eames came into the room. "Look at you. Calling out to us like a good boy. Dear me, you look absolutely white in the morning light. Do you ever go outside? Have your servants carry you about on a litter so your highness can get some sun?"
Robert's face tightened as Eames talked, the memory of the previous night returning. "You rat bastard. I'm going –" Robert broke into hoarse coughing.
"I thought we addressed this last night," Eames pressed him back on the pillow. He felt his forehead, ignoring Robert's murderous look. "You best behave or I'll slam you up against the wall again. Unlike the other bleeding hearts in my group, I know what's best for spoiled little rich boys. Now, would you like to use the facilities before we give you some food and more medicine?"
Robert hesitated, then nodded. As soon as he tried to stand, he got so dizzy he nearly fell over. Eames had an arm around his torso immediately, propping him up to stand better.
"I can manage," Robert wheezed. "It's just standing up too quickly after lying down."
Eames made a scoffing sound in his throat. "You'd be flat on the floor if it weren't for me. So you best hold on tight or I'll carry you over my shoulder."
"I'm the same height as you," Robert complained as they slowly walked towards the bathroom. "Stop acting like I'm some sort of weak princeling. You wouldn't do any better after the flu."
"Oh, the flu is it?" Eames chuckled. "Last night you said you weren't sick and now you claim it's the flu."
"Stop talking. My head hurts," Robert said as they reached the bathroom.
"I'm keeping the door open a crack," Eames warned. "If you fall, please try to make yourself decent before I have to come in."
Robert muttered something under his breath that made Eames smile, and he limped into the bathroom.
Fifteen minutes, Robert was back in bed, utterly exhausted with his teeth chattering slightly. Eames covered him back up.
"Rest and we'll bring you food shortly. The others are running errands so I'm on nannying duty. I'm getting you some cream of wheat, eggs, and hot tea and lots of water."
"Ugh," Robert made a face. "I hate all that. I want real food. And I'm not taking any more medicine. It makes me feel dizzy and tired."
He waited for Eames to reply with something abrupt and harsh, but Eames headed towards the door, leaving it open. Robert stared listlessly at the door. He could imagine getting out of the bed, sneaking out into the hall, making a run for the door.
He closed his eyes and relaxed into the bed. Maybe he could run away so fast they wouldn't see him, going faster and faster until he was a blur of color like the Flash in those old comic books he had read as a child.
That ache, hard and choking, returned to his chest as he remembered his childhood. His mother dying, leaving him alone with his father and his godfather. Pretending not to care about the loss—the hole she left behind—an endless game where he acted like his mother was temporarily gone, just out of town on business or on a humanitarian trip. All those years, pretending like she was still alive but not close by, and any day now she would come home.
His throat constricted as Robert realized with a thud that he was an orphan. No mother or father, just an orphan.
He stared hard ahead as his vision rimmed blurry with tears. He had been kidnapped, he was slowly losing his grip with reality, and he was an orphan.
That sense of loneliness, a stretching ahead of empty days feeling nothing, of moments spent around people who wanted a part of his fortune, of standing in his suits with a permanent half-smirk, half-scowl on his face that acted as barrier to protect himself, of nothingness and hurt which rubbed against his soul until he just ached . . .
Robert tilted his head back against the pillow to allow the cold tears to run down opposite sides of his face, down to meet his hairline which felt damp with matted sweat. He was so, so tired of being alone.
"Here we go, love," Eames closed the door with a tray balanced on one arm. "Something for our sick blighter who – blimey, what happened?"
Robert raised a shaky hand to smear at his tears, but his voice didn't work.
"I leave for five minutes," Eames set the tray on the side table, "and you fall to bloody pieces. Are you that ill?"
"Go 'way," Robert mumbled, covering his eyes with his hand.
Eames stood there for a second before letting out a heavy breath. "Now, come along. Man up, and sit up, and have yer breakfast like a . . . man."
"Not hungry," Robert didn't move his hand.
Eames went to the tray, opened a tea bag, and dropped it in the empty teacup before pouring hot water in it. "I'll never understand you Americans," Eames said, falling back on his old trick of talking casually through uncomfortable situations. "You ask for tea over here, and they usually give you something ice and cold. You specify hot tea, and they give you a ruddy bag with it all chewed up. Proper tea involves soaking the leaves in boiling water, yes?"
Robert threw his hand off his face to whack down on the bed. "Are you seriously talking about tea right now? I don't want tea. I don't want anything."
"Now, let's not have a row. I told the others I'd take care of you until they come, and I'm the sort of bloke who has something to prove, the sort that likes to be right. And when I'm not right, I tend to fix things so I come out ahead. Matter of pride for me."
"I'm not hungry and I'm going home."
Robert made a move to throw off the covers, but he froze when Eames turned on him.
"Darling, I would not test me. I spent the whole night on that ruddy sofa which was not comfortable, listening to you cough and sniff in your sleep. I don't know when the team's coming back, I have no idea what they're planning, and I'm not sure of anything, but," he picked up the cup of tea, "you are drinking this cuppa and you are eating this food."
Robert raised stubborn blue eyes up.
"Don't make me lash you to the corners of the bed, pry your jaws open, and pour food down your throat. It will make a mess, and you'll just get worse fighting against me."
Robert turned his eyes towards the door. "I could make a run for it. I'll scream for the police."
"I really don't –"
Robert made a lunge for it.
Technically, he leaned over, tried to toss aside the covers, couldn't get his feet down in time, and almost fell to the floor. Eames caught him before he slid too far, and Robert reached out to punch him so hard that Eames fell back unconscious.
Again, that was Robert's plan, but his punch turned into an open-palmed hand batting at Eames's strong wrists. However, the teacup did fall and splashed tea all over the carpet.
"All right, that's enough of that."
Robert gave a squawk as Eames lifted him and tossed him on the bed, front-down. He felt a strong hand in the middle of his back, and for a minute, he was terrified that the other man meant to stab him in the back.
After years of lessons with ex-Navy Seals and ex-CIA operatives, his training kicked in despite his dizziness, and Robert raised hand up to guard his throat. Kidnappers might try to strangle as a means of subduing him, and the goal was always to guard his throat because –
Something slapped him. Across the rear. Blunt and no-nonsense.
Robert coughed, shocked.
He managed to crane his head over to see Eames bringing down something dark that smacked against the seat of his pajamas again.
"In England," Eames pressed down on Robert's back and lifted his arm again, "we call this a slippering."
The hard thing which apparently was Eames' right shoe smacked against Robert for a third time and was brought down two more times before Eames added, "Over here, a spanking is the common term or a 'whooping' as the colloquial use, but I found the flat sole of a shoe does the trick. No reason to hurt my hand."
Howling in outrage, Robert thrashed, but a coughing fit wracked his body, and he began gasping for air. Eames pulled him up to sit on the edge of the bed and forced his head down between his knees.
"Deep breaths." Eames kept one hand on the back of Robert's head while balancing on one leg to slip his shoe back.
When the coughing fit subsided, Robert leaned back against the headboard and took the cup of cold water Eames offered. Next Eames uncapped the bottle of Day-Quil and said,
"Take a swallow."
Robert gulped down a mouthful, flinching at the fake sweet taste, and handed the bottle back. "You – you assaulted me."
"We've already kidnapped you so –" Eames shrugged.
"But you –" Robert blushed so hard his ears turned pink. "I – you can't hit me there. You're supposed to punch me in the face or in the gut or choke me, not –"
"Slipper you?"
"Stop it!"
"I've been in my fair share of fights." Eames set to making another cup of tea. "I've bashed faces and guts, broken legs and noses, choked people to sleep. Blood gets everywhere, bones have to be reset, people wake up with concussions. A few slaps across the ass settled you down right proper."
"I have martial arts training."
"Yes, and if you weren't so ill, I'm sure you'd take me down a peg or two." Eames handed him the teacup and offered packets of sugar from the prim little box with the hotel's logo on the front. "Spoon?"
Robert drank the tea and then he ate the cream of wheat and eggs mechanically, a rhythm of bite, chew, chew, chew, swallow. Eames had pulled up a chair, close enough to pass things over from the tray when Robert needed them, but Robert didn't look at him, choosing instead to stare down at the bed.
"Feeling better?" Eames put the last empty plate back on the tray.
Robert made what was probably meant to be a huff, but came out all gasping and short.
"Robert?"
"You win," the words hurt coming out. "You kidnapped me, overpowered me, assaulted me, and now you've probably drugged me. Just get on with it. Ransom me, or hurt me more."
"You showed up with a gun at my mate's place. I'd say you brought this on yourself."
"And-and when your team comes back, you're going mock me and-and tell them what you did and they'll laugh . . ."
Eames was about to roll his eyes, but Robert coughed twice and then swallowed noisily as he blinked fast.
"Yeah, okay, calm down. I'll make a deal with you. If you take some more medicine and settle down for a nap, I won't tell everyone what happened."
"Promise?"
"It'll be our secret. I'm good at keeping secrets."
Three minutes later, Robert had downed some pills—antihistamines and decongestants—and despite the Day-Quil helping with the dizziness, he gave into the impulse to close his eyes for a little while.
Eames turned the light out and pulled the curtain over the windows to keep the room dark. He picked up the tray to take it to the other room when a soft voice asked,
"You – you aren't leaving, are you?"
"No, I was going to the other room. But I'll stay here a while if it will quiet you down."
Robert blinked, but the other man's tone was calm, almost kind, completely devoid of scorn. He might have said "if it will help you" in the same tone. After all, Robert thought as he gave into sleep, kidnappers couldn't be too considerate with their words.
Eames sat for a while, nibbling at the crackers on the tray and helping himself to his own cup of tea, until he heard a quiet tap at the door.
Creeping and keeping an eye on the still form on the bed, he inched open the door to see Arthur and Ariadne on the other side.
"We have a plan," Ariadne whispered.
"We're going back into a dream," Arthur held up the silver case, the one Eames hoped to never see again. "All of four of us."