AN: This movie is beautiful. I can't get enough of it. So, so pretty. Thanks to Fawkes Song for betaing and doing an awesome job as always.

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It took four months for the events to explode. Cobb had expected it – inception so deep, so contrary to one's nature, an outcome so drastic, breaking up a financial empire – all just a matter of time before the cracks began to show.

He got the call in the middle of the night.

"Fischer's gone off the deep end," Arthur said, his voice tense through the line. "I was out with Ariadne. He saw us. He watched us for about twenty minutes, and then he came up to our table. We pretended like we didn't know him, but he kept asking where Mr. Charles was. He thought he was about to be kidnapped and he kept coughing and swaying back and forth."

Cobb was sitting up straight in bed by now. "What happened?"

"We told him that he had the wrong people, but he was paranoid. Browning was with him, and he kept trying to pull Fischer away. 'Robert, you're overwhelmed,' he said over and over again. 'You are breaking from all the stress of destroying your father's empire. Let's get you home and to bed.'" Arthur took a deep breath. "And Fischer looked up with this crazy look, pointed at us, and yelled, 'They made me do it! Them and Mr. Charles. It was them, Uncle Peter, all them!'"

"And then?" Cobb sat frozen, waiting.

"Browning got him out of the restaurant, and Ariadne came home with me. But now we're in my apartment with him outside."

Cobb stood up, his cellphone pressed against his ear. "Fischer followed you home?"

"Yeah, he's outside, walking up and down the sidewalk. He doesn't look very good. And Cobb? He's got a gun."

"You packing?"

"Yeah, I have two guns here, but I don't want a shootout, especially with Ariadne here."

"I'll call Eames," Cobb reached for his shirt. "Send a text to Saito. We'll send Mr. Fischer back to where he belongs."

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Sniffing hard against the pressure in his sinuses and trying not to shiver in the cold, Robert Fischer glanced up to the dim light of the third-story apartment window for the eighth time. He could feel his reason dripping away, each second pulling at his sanity like sand falling down an hourglass. Slowly, so slow it barely made any difference at first, but the longer the sand fell, the bigger the expanse at the top.

He was going crazy.

"No, no, no," Robert shook his head, blinking his eyes to keep the tears back. He pushed his face into that icy, blank look he wore so well, half-sneer, half-disgust, the expression he had perfected so many times in the mirror so that he could wear it whenever he had to spend more than thirty seconds with his father.

His sanity he could lose, but the coldness would go on forever. Like that date he had had months ago. The pretty redhead who touched his face in the glow of the firelight – "Robert, is there anything on the other side of this?"

No, there wasn't. Just coldness that silenced years of pain until he felt nothing but ice.

His chest tightened, and he began coughing, that awful hacking noise that echoed against the faded brick building. He felt colder than ever, and his head ached, and he wanted nothing more than to find a bed to lie down on.

Once the coughing stopped, he leaned against the building and put his hand in his pocket and drew out the gun. He had been threatened with a gun in the dreams, the black hole shoved in his face while he tried to hold onto his composure, tried to find that icy resolve to get him through his terror. He hated the fear of being abducted, being kidnapped, being held prisoner, being so helpless.

That was one good thing that would come from dissolving his father's empire. He would no longer be the prince. He could go places without bodyguards; he could have normal conversations without worrying that someone was asking him for something; he could date women without worrying that they were after his fortune.

He would still have money, plenty of money, billions stashed away in off-shore accounts and hidden in bonds and IRAs, but his face wouldn't be on the magazines, quoted in Wall Street, a figure of speculation, always watched.

He would now do the watching and demand answers for what had happened to him on the plane ride and after. Something had changed inside him, and Robert did not like it. He used to have the coldness to rely on, but he found it breaking inside him. He had actually started crying two days ago when looking over his father's clothes. Uncle Peter had found him and made him put down the garments; he had walked Robert down to his study and made him sit down and have a drink of brandy.

"I'm about to have you mentally evaluated, Robert," Uncle Peter had said in that voice that left no room for argument. "You came home with the body, and right away you insisted on breaking up your father's empire, all his work. I told you to wait, but you wouldn't listen. You need to find some way to keep it together, my boy, or both of us are going to visit a psychiatry clinic but only one of us is going to be evaluated."

He had convinced his godfather that he was all right, but hours earlier at dinner, when he had seen those two who had been in his dream, something in Robert had cracked. He felt wounded, betrayed, furious, vulnerable – all feelings he hated. But this time he was not going to suffer. He clutched the gun, his finger resting lightly on the trigger, ignoring the tremors of exhaustion that flowed along his body. He would stay in control this time.

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Eames made it to the apartments before Cobb. If men were given supernatural powers, Cobb would have sworn Eames' power was getting places faster than anyone else and doing so with light, breezy steps and a careless attitude. Eames was dressed in khakis and a dark blue shirt, almost as if he had come in from a day of beach-side golf.

"What's the little bastard gotten up to now?" Eames slipped his keys into his pocket.

Cobb put a finger to his mouth. "He's around the front," he whispered to Eames. "We need to go up the fire escape to get to Arthur and Ariadne. Arthur lowered the bottom level for us. He broke into the empty apartment on the second floor."

"You Americans," Eames shook his head as he and Cobb crept towards the back of the complex. "In Europe, the first floor is the second one. The bottom level is ground level."

"So you start counting 0, 1, 2?" Cobb reached the ladder under the fire escape and pulled himself up. "Who starts counting at zero? Zero is nothing. Americans don't count nothing as something."

Thankfully Eames was too busy climbing up after him to reply.

"Hey," Arthur met them at the window on the first landing. "Get in, and we'll go up."

"I don't know why we're sneaking around like a pair of ferrets," Eames waited until Cobb swung inside before he followed. "We all got guns. Go out and pop Fischer in the knee, call the ambulance, and leave. Pretty boy will crumble like a house of cards with a true threat."

"We're not shooting Fischer," Arthur said. "The guy hasn't done anything wrong . . yet. We got to figure out a way to make him leave without undoing the inception."

Up in the apartment, Ariadne stood in the middle of the room in a tank top and gym pants. She smiled slightly in greeting at the three of them.

"Thanks for coming. Fischer's still pacing. I'm scared he's going to hurt us or himself. He's clearly not all right."

Eames boldly walked up to the window and looked down. "Yep, little bugger's got himself a real play toy. Fischer fancies himself a big boy now."

"Let's call the police," Ariadne suggested. "I mean, the police might have their hands tied with a regular guy on the streets, especially if the guy has a permit for the gun, but a billionaire whose father just died and who is currently breaking up a financial empire? The police would insist he get medical help, probably at a psych ward."

"But that's not good," Cobb ran a tired hand over his face. "If doctors start questioning him too closely, he'll break. That's the problem with inception – you got to get in there, make the suggestion, and then back away."

"That's why Mal went crazy," Ariadne said softly. "The inception, or the inceptor if you will, was too close."

Cobb gave her a haunted look, and she gave him her best sympathetic sad smile.

"So we either run from Fischer," Eames said, "or we kill him."

Arthur put his arm around Ariadne, and she leaned against his shoulder.

"I can't run," Cobb's shoulders slumped. "My kids couldn't take me leaving again and I can't take them with me. And if we kill Fischer –"

"You'll have another death associated with you," Arthur shook his head. "It's too big a risk. Cobb, why don't you –"

"Eames?" Ariadne took a step towards the door where Eames was heading. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to take care of our little problem," Eames' voice had a definite smirk to it as he went out the door.

"Should we follow him?" Ariadne turned to the other two men.

"If Eames wants to play the crazy hero, let him go," Arthur shook his head. "Maybe he'll shoot Fischer, and Fischer will shoot him, and that will be an end to it."

Despite his callous words, Arthur moved to the window to look down at the street; Cobb and Ariadne were right behind him.

Down below, the streetlight was pale and cast a sickly glow on the urban decay of broken sidewalk, blurred graffiti, and timeworn buildings. Robert stood at the edge of the light, just beyond its tired glow. He held the gun tight, but another fit of coughing burned his throat.

"Hey, Fischer," Eames called out as he burst from the apartment building. "That's right, over here, Robbie boy."

Robert jumped off the building, his gun raised and his face deathly white in the street light. Far from being threatening, he looked terrified, and the gun was shaking so badly in his hands that he nearly dropped it.

"Whoa, whoa, there, Robert," Eames put his hands up. "Stay calm."

"You know my name?" Robert managed to steady the gun. His chest tightened again, and he swallowed hard to keep from coughing.

"You're one of the richest men in the world – of course I know your name," Eames was about twelve feet away, his hands still raised cautiously. "I know you're scared, but you shouldn't be. You have a gun. How did you get here? Did you drive here?"

"Yes! No, wait – I – I –"

"You can't remember? Any chance you think this is all a dream?"

Robert's eyes went wide and for a second he looked absolutely crazy. But he steadied the gun again. "If this is a dream, I can shoot you and it won't matter."

"Okay, this isn't a dream," Eames admitted. "Did you come by yourself?"

Robert nodded.

"Did you drive yourself?" Eames looked up the street. "Is that parked Lamborghini yours?"

"Yeah, it's mine," a thin sheen of sweat had broken on Robert's forehead.

"Did you tell anyone where you were going? Your uncle? Your staff? Your guards? Does anyone know you're here?"

"I'll ask the questions. I'm the one who has a gun."

"Okay, okay, I know you're here because you want to speak to Mr. Charles, don't you? You don't remember me that much, but you do remember him. I can take you to see him, but not while you're waving around a gun."

"I have the gun – I'm in charge," Robert aimed it right at Eames' face. "Get moving."

"He's upstairs," Eames went to the door, Robert right behind him with the gun still aimed.

Eames held the door open for Robert, but the minute the armed man stepped inside, Eames swung the door hard against him, slamming against the gun and Robert's arm.

Caught off guard, Robert stumbled back on the sidewalk, and the gun went off, blowing a hole into the side of the building. Before Robert could regain any kind of control, Eames was out the door and on him.

"All right, you pansy-assed rich boy," Eames grabbed the gun and tucked it in the back of his pants before hauling Robert up by the collar, "I've had enough of your shenanigans."

He slammed Robert up against the brick wall, eliciting a groan, and he gave Robert an open-handed whack across the back of the head, which brought about a louder groan. "Pathetic, little twit," Eames grabbed the back of Robert's collar and the waist of his pants and marched him into the building. "Playing with guns, running around making threats. Rich boys like you need bodyguards and armed cars to make sure they don't get into trouble."

"Ow, ow," Robert twisted slightly as he was forced up the stairs. "Let me go. I'm insured for –"

"Ten million against kidnapping. Yeah, we remember."

Robert tried to turn around. "You were the man in the dream who got into the taxi with me! You all were on the plane with me, but I just thought it was a weird dream, and Uncle Peter said it was the stress of my father's death, but – but –"

Eames interrupted by flinging Robert into the room of Arthur's apartment. They all stared at each other for a second. Cobb to Robert, Robert to Arthur, Arthur to Cobb, Robert to Ariadne – nearly twenty seconds of staring without speaking.

"You're all in on this!" Robert lunged for Cobb, but then several things happened at once.

Arthur told Ariadne to go shut and lock the door, and she ran for it.

Cobb managed to grab Robert'ss wrists and hold him at bay though the shorter man tried to thrash his way out and aimed several near kicks at Cobb's knees.

Eames charged at Robert and after a few seconds of fighting, he and Cobb got Robert bent over the dining room table, face down, his hands behind his back.

"He's a live one, all right," Eames gave a short laugh. "Who'd have known that a rich boy would put up a fight?"

Robert meanwhile let out a string of profanity that caused Arthur to put his hands over Ariadne's ears. She laughed at his protective gesture, but Cobb's face was grim.

"Stop it, Robert, stop fighting us. There are four of us and one of you, and you aren't armed, and we all have guns."

"Let me up, you slimy motherfu –" Robert broke off as he dissolved in a fit of coughing. He couldn't stop and his body lurched against the table with each deep hack.

Cobb looked at Eames. "Is he sick?"

"Jeez, let him up off the table," Ariadne insisted. "Put him in a chair before he chokes to death."

Carefully, they lifted him up and set him down on a wooden chair. Robert coughed a few more times, then looked up with red-rimmed, teary, hateful eyes. He didn't speak, concentrating on breathing hard and trying not to give in to the extreme dizziness that made him feel weak and shaky.

Cobb stood over him for a second, arms crossed and stance hostile, but then he reached out a hand. Robert flinched away from it, but Cobb palmed his forehead, pressing his hand for a second even though Robert tried to shake him off.

"He's burning up," Cobb told them before he stooped slightly. "Robert? Robert, how long have you been sick?"

Robert tried to spit at him, but his aim was off and the spittle didn't get anywhere near Cobb.

"None of that," Eames gave him a stern look. "We'll beat you right proper if you fight us. No one knows where you are. You went off all alone with a crazy plan of getting us, which shows just how much you're not thinking. We could kill you up here and put your body in the car and push the car into the ocean, and they wouldn't find you for months."

"We're not killers," Arthur said.

"He doesn't know that."

"No one's killing anyone," Cobb interrupted. "Arthur, you got a thermometer around here?"

"Oh, maybe, let me check," Arthur headed towards the bathroom with Ariadne with him.

"We're going to take your temperature," Cobb told Robert, "and if it's higher than 102, we're tying you up and dropping you off at the hospital."

"And if it isn't?" Eames asked.

"We'll come up with a new plan."

"Found it," Arthur came back into the main room, holding the thermometer up. "Sorry, it's just glass, not digital. And it might taste like strawberries. I was measuring the temperature of a melting strawberry smoothie last time I used it."

"Why?" Ariadne gave him a curious look.

"Just for fun," Arthur shrugged. "It was kind of boring before you got here."

Cobb took the thermometer. "Open up."

"You're not putting that in my mouth," Robert argued.

"I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation here," Eames stood next to Cobb, nearly shoulder to shoulder. "You're getting this inside you whether we put it in your mouth, up your ass, or in the hole that I shoot through your knee. You decide which of those places you want it, and we'll oblige you."

Robert gave him a murderous look and then opened up his mouth. Cobb slipped the metal tip under his tongue, and Robert closed his mouth, his cheeks flaming with fever and embarrassment. If he could have bitten it in two, he would have, but he knew the mercury inside would probably poison him. As it was, the thermometer did taste a little like strawberries.

"You see?" Eames smiled at Cobb, "the proper motivation is all these spoiled rich boys need."

"No need to antagonize him," Cobb glanced at his watch. "Two minutes, then we'll figure out what to do with you."

Robert glared at him, but he couldn't make much of a reply with the thermometer in his mouth.