The Consequences of Trust (Part 8)
Warnings: Suicide Themes
Author's notes: If you for some reason haven't been informed, there is a companion WIP to this piece from Eames point of view.
This is no longer being beta'd. Please, if you find mistakes, point them out so I may change them.
Disclaimer: This story/artwork is based on characters and situations created and owned by the Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. They are not mine, I just like to play with them.
_______
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7
“And how long have you been dealing with these issues?”
Arthur takes his gaze away from his hands, which are resting, in his lap. The soft scribble of pen on paper breaks up the near silence in the room. He can faintly hear traffic going by outside, but it’s intermittent; they’re on a quiet block.
The office is small, but comfortably decorated. It’s outfitted in warm, rich colors, and the furnishing is more modern than he would have thought. It’s bright and sunny, but not overly so, cream-colored blinds drawn shut making the office glow.
He had expected a pretentious overstuffed chaise lounge chair, and wood paneled walls. Or at least a rich, dark desk neatly organized with brass penholders and an expensive desk lamp. Instead he finds a cluttered, but not messy, glass desk covered in colorful plastic containers and framed photos. It’s pushed back against one wall. Potted plants sit by the windows and near the desk. The small circle of comfortable chairs they sit in are backed into another corner of the room. He sits closest to the wall, instinctively keeping a sight line to the door and his back protected.
“Just over a year,” he answers. One year, two weeks, and five days, he thinks to himself.
“Mr. Cobb and Mr. Eames gave me a little of your history. Why didn’t you seek help sooner?”
The question isn’t admonishing at all. Arthur knows Dr. Steffe is a professional because, on its own, it could easily be interpreted as chiding, but her tone doesn’t allow for it at all. It’s genuine and tinged with professional concern.
“Mental health care is not something that is usually friendly for my profession,” he says sardonically.
“Yes, but surely you must know about the developing specialty in Dream Share Psychology, Mr. Reznik.”
She doesn’t sound offended, but curious. She doesn’t sound like Arthur just demeaned her career with a flippant comment. Arthur is having a hard time dealing with how straightforward she is. It would be so much easier to keep his walls up if she acted as if she had any amount of ego over her job. Instead she seems open, and worse, actually interested.
“Please, call me Arthur.”
“Does the use of your assumed name make you uncomfortable?”
“No. It’s just easier. Everyone calls me Arthur.”
“Is this your way of seeming approachable?”
Arthur’s lips thin unhappily. He feels outmatched. The only other person who does this to him is Eames, but at least Eames doesn’t talk about it. He just files his observations away. He remembers the first time he noticed just how much Eames knew about him. Eames had brought him coffee, just how he liked it, and left him alone for the day when he had been feeling particularly irritable. It had been just what Arthur needed. Arthur never had to tell Eames anything; the man just knew.
That was a long time ago.
“How did you know it was a fake name?” He asks, coming back from his thoughts.
“Please don’t deflect, Arthur. I expect honesty. I know that most of what goes on in dreaming is illegal. I’d appreciate, from now on, that you treat me as if I’m not naive, and I will wait to ask you what you were just thinking about to make you look so worried.”
He sighs in defeat. He’s never enjoyed arrogance, has often went out of his way to prove those who display it wrong somehow, but he’s tired. He’s been tired. And somehow, this seems like she’s reaching out, instead of trying to assert a sense of power.
“I … didn’t know who I could trust. I have never vetted a psychologist before, for anyone.”
He toys with the sleeve of his shirt nervously. He feels utterly dissected, and helpless to control his situation. He feels exposed and uncomfortable. He wishes he could dislike this doctor, so he could shut down and not have to deal with his problems. But it’s not really an option. Not with Dom now in the mix, and Eames still sticking around like he actually cares.
“Let me assure you, Arthur, that I’m very professional. I’m familiar with dreaming, including the known psychological effects. I stay updated with new studies. I’m bound by a professional code of ethics as well as the law, though I know that fact will not assure you as much as I wish it would. I’ve been treating Dom for a while now and I feel like we’ve made a lot of progress. I hope that’s enough for you, because it’s obvious that you need help.”
Arthur sighs heavily. He really has no other options. As much as he doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to delve too deeply into his own emotional distress, he has nowhere else to go. And he knows he can’t live like this much longer. He’s already tried to end it once. It’s either this, a real attempt at therapy, or death.
“It’s not, but I’m willing to try. I can’t live like this anymore,” he answers honestly.
***
“How are you feeling today, Arthur?”
“Today is better.”
Eames drives Arthur to therapy every Tuesday and Thursday. It’s been a few weeks, and he’s acclimated to living with Cobb, and the kids, as much as he thinks he’s going to. It’s hard being around the children, having to put on a good face. Sometimes he’s just not up to it and stays in his room the entire day. But it is better.
It’s good being around Cobb again. They were friends a long time ago, before Mal died. With the way that Cobb played fast and loose with his life while on the run, he has somehow forgotten that Cobb really was a good father.
It is also helpful being around two people who are of no threat to him. Two little kids who have dealt with grief enough to leave him alone when he really needs it, but who still bug him to play enough to keep him from completely sinking too far into his own head again.
“Good. Good. Shall we go over everything again?”
“I don’t want to today.”
“Arthur, immersion is the best therapy. We’ve gone over the statistics, the methods, and the case studies. You need to be honest with what the real problem is, and I don’t think we’ve gotten to the heart of it yet. Please.”
They’ve been doing this for weeks now. He tells her about the dream and about the beating. He tells her how it felt, physically, to endure the pain of having your face crushed. He tells her of the panic he felt when he knew it wouldn’t be a quick death. He tells her about the fear that it would happen again.
“We’ve gone over it. I suffered a very painful death, but I didn’t die, because it was a dream. I wasn’t meant to remember something like this. That’s it. I’ll get over it,” he bites out.
Dr. Steffe gives him what would be a frustrated look on anyone less sympathetic. Arthur has found that she doesn’t back down, not when she knows she doesn’t have to. They’ve only hit a barrier where she has backed off a few times. He should have learned this by now, but he’s stubborn, and pushes back anyway.
“You’re always more stubborn on your good days,” she says. “Yes we’ve gone over the pain, and the fear aspects. But you’ve said yourself, you’re used to it. You accepted that it was necessary to your mission. So what changed that? You’re a very tough man, Arthur, I can tell. You’ve been through pain before. This isn’t a culmination, a straw that broke the camel’s back type of situation, and I can’t help you until you tell me what the real issue is.”
Arthur doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what she wants to hear. Does she want to hear that it was Eames this did it to him? That it’s the man who faithfully drops him off at the office every few days; the man that has been listed as one of two emergency contacts, because the only people he knows in California is Dom and Eames, is the person who put him here. How could that admission make a difference?
He doesn’t say anything. They sit for the next thirty minutes, not speaking. Arthur would feel vindicated in his selfish act to keep his secret if Dr. Steffe seemed restless, or annoyed. She just sits quietly, looking out the window, or back at him, letting silence fill the room as if it’s not uncomfortable.
When the session is over, Eames is waiting in the parking lot, as usual. He signs himself out at the desk. His shoulders slump forward, ruining his posture. He’s tired all the time. The motivation to do anything just doesn’t exist anymore. Today was useless. It seems like most of his days are useless.
“You’re lucky,” the receptionist says.
“I’m sorry?” Arthur looks up at her, confused. The woman just eyes him fondly from behind her glasses, purple-painted lips drawn up in a smile. Her teeth are a blindingly white against her chocolate skin.
“Your boyfriend, he cares. Most patients don’t have anyone, or if they do, they’re just dropped off like a sack of laundry at a dry cleaner. It’s hard, for everyone. But he’s here for you every appointment.”
He glances out the door, at Eames parked, in the first row of the lot, sitting in the rented car.
“He’s not my boyfriend. He … He’s … He just drops me off.”
The receptionist gives him a disbelieving hum. “He doesn’t just drop you off, honey, he stays the entire time, waiting for you.”
Arthur frowns, brows furling in perplexed frustration. He doesn’t know what to make of her statement. Why would Eames sit in a parking lot for an hour when he could be out doing something in the city? He finishes signing the time on the clipboard, and then heads out to the car.
***
Ariadne arrives a few days later. She apologizes to Eames for being delayed; Arthur didn’t know she was even coming. He watches them hug as Cobb drags her bags to the third guest room. Cobb isn’t surprised to see her here, so Arthur guesses that he’s the last to know she was coming.
There was a time when he knew where each member of his team was, when they moved, and what jobs they are on. He knew their alternate identities, their extra addresses, and their enemy’s whereabouts. He tries not to feel utterly useless, now out of the loop, but doesn’t succeed.
Instead of greeting Ariadne, he makes his way to the back yard, a little overwhelmed. He admits, he’s made a lot of progress, but it’s still difficult. He’s spent a year avoiding everyone he knows, and now nearly everyone he cares about is under the same roof. He sits on the edge of the patio, staring off into the untended garden at the edge of the fence.
“Arthur?”
He turns to see Phillipa standing in the sliding door. She looks uncertain, like she’s afraid of something. She claps her hand on her elbow, mimicking the gesture her father does when he’s nervous, or thinking.
“Yes, Phillipa?”
“Don’t leave us because you’re sad,” she says softly.
The statement reopens the wound of Mal’s death in his heart. He feels like his breath is knocked from his lungs and his eyes begin to tear up. He wasn’t here when Mal was falling apart, he was working too much, but he knew, from the calls Cobb made to him a few times, that she stopped trying to hide her thoughts from the kids.
“I’m not leaving, honey,” he says. “I know you’re real, and that I’m not dreaming, ok? I just had something bad happen that I need some time to recover from? Do you understand that?”
She nods, looking a little sad. He reaches his hand out to her and she takes it lightly in her fingers. He rubs his thumb over her hand, looking into her eyes, which are so like her mothers. He wishes Mal never lost herself, or had tried to get help. He wishes that Phillipa and James never had to lose their mother.
“I know what it’s like to not trust someone that you care about,” he says.
The statement hits him like a kick to the chest. He just said out loud everything that he’s been thinking about, constantly, for the last year. The root of the problem, the entire reason why his world crashed down around him so hard, the reason he’s been fighting to deny: he just said it so plainly to Cobb’s child.
He swallows thickly before continuing, “But I want you to trust that I won’t leave because I’m sad. I’m trying to get help, ok? It’s not going to be like before.”
She nods again, her green eyes filling with tears and her mouth trembling. He pulls her into a hug and she sniffles into his shoulder. He doesn’t try to fight the tears that fall down his own cheeks. He realizes how selfish he’s been. If he just lets everything overwhelm him again, lets his depression take over, he’ll be hurting his friends. He’ll be hurting the people who care for him. He’ll be hurting the children, and Dom, Ariadne and … no, not Eames. Eames feels guilty, but it’s not the same as truly caring.
He knows that he has to get through this. He has to make an effort in therapy. He has to take control again. If he’s going to make it through this, he has to fight for it. He can’t break Phillipa’s heart, not like her mother had. He can’t put her through that again. He can’t put Dom through losing someone again.
“Hey, hey. It’s going to be ok, Phillipa.” He pulls her back to look her in her eyes again. “Don’t cry, ok? I’m going to be alright.”
She wipes tears from her eyes with the back of her hand; they’re red and puffy. She looks somehow older this way. It seems so wrong because tears usually make children seem younger. But the sadness behind her eyes, the knowledge of what depression can lead to, ages her. Again, Arthur wishes she didn’t know what it was like to lose someone. He wishes she didn’t know what it was like to watch someone fall apart.
“Let’s go inside,” he says, wiping the rest of his own tears away. He stands up and holds her hand as they enter the house.
He has two days until his next session. Next time he’ll make a real effort to talk about things. He still doesn’t know exactly how to fix anything, but he’ll try. He’ll try and get to the root of the problem. He’ll do whatever exercises the doctor wants. He’ll do all the immersion therapy and calm breathing, and talking she wants. It’s not just about him, and he knows this now. He has to try.
Part 9
Author's notes: If you for some reason haven't been informed, there is a companion WIP to this piece from Eames point of view.
This is no longer being beta'd. Please, if you find mistakes, point them out so I may change them.
Disclaimer: This story/artwork is based on characters and situations created and owned by the Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. They are not mine, I just like to play with them.
_______
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7
“And how long have you been dealing with these issues?”
Arthur takes his gaze away from his hands, which are resting, in his lap. The soft scribble of pen on paper breaks up the near silence in the room. He can faintly hear traffic going by outside, but it’s intermittent; they’re on a quiet block.
The office is small, but comfortably decorated. It’s outfitted in warm, rich colors, and the furnishing is more modern than he would have thought. It’s bright and sunny, but not overly so, cream-colored blinds drawn shut making the office glow.
He had expected a pretentious overstuffed chaise lounge chair, and wood paneled walls. Or at least a rich, dark desk neatly organized with brass penholders and an expensive desk lamp. Instead he finds a cluttered, but not messy, glass desk covered in colorful plastic containers and framed photos. It’s pushed back against one wall. Potted plants sit by the windows and near the desk. The small circle of comfortable chairs they sit in are backed into another corner of the room. He sits closest to the wall, instinctively keeping a sight line to the door and his back protected.
“Just over a year,” he answers. One year, two weeks, and five days, he thinks to himself.
“Mr. Cobb and Mr. Eames gave me a little of your history. Why didn’t you seek help sooner?”
The question isn’t admonishing at all. Arthur knows Dr. Steffe is a professional because, on its own, it could easily be interpreted as chiding, but her tone doesn’t allow for it at all. It’s genuine and tinged with professional concern.
“Mental health care is not something that is usually friendly for my profession,” he says sardonically.
“Yes, but surely you must know about the developing specialty in Dream Share Psychology, Mr. Reznik.”
She doesn’t sound offended, but curious. She doesn’t sound like Arthur just demeaned her career with a flippant comment. Arthur is having a hard time dealing with how straightforward she is. It would be so much easier to keep his walls up if she acted as if she had any amount of ego over her job. Instead she seems open, and worse, actually interested.
“Please, call me Arthur.”
“Does the use of your assumed name make you uncomfortable?”
“No. It’s just easier. Everyone calls me Arthur.”
“Is this your way of seeming approachable?”
Arthur’s lips thin unhappily. He feels outmatched. The only other person who does this to him is Eames, but at least Eames doesn’t talk about it. He just files his observations away. He remembers the first time he noticed just how much Eames knew about him. Eames had brought him coffee, just how he liked it, and left him alone for the day when he had been feeling particularly irritable. It had been just what Arthur needed. Arthur never had to tell Eames anything; the man just knew.
That was a long time ago.
“How did you know it was a fake name?” He asks, coming back from his thoughts.
“Please don’t deflect, Arthur. I expect honesty. I know that most of what goes on in dreaming is illegal. I’d appreciate, from now on, that you treat me as if I’m not naive, and I will wait to ask you what you were just thinking about to make you look so worried.”
He sighs in defeat. He’s never enjoyed arrogance, has often went out of his way to prove those who display it wrong somehow, but he’s tired. He’s been tired. And somehow, this seems like she’s reaching out, instead of trying to assert a sense of power.
“I … didn’t know who I could trust. I have never vetted a psychologist before, for anyone.”
He toys with the sleeve of his shirt nervously. He feels utterly dissected, and helpless to control his situation. He feels exposed and uncomfortable. He wishes he could dislike this doctor, so he could shut down and not have to deal with his problems. But it’s not really an option. Not with Dom now in the mix, and Eames still sticking around like he actually cares.
“Let me assure you, Arthur, that I’m very professional. I’m familiar with dreaming, including the known psychological effects. I stay updated with new studies. I’m bound by a professional code of ethics as well as the law, though I know that fact will not assure you as much as I wish it would. I’ve been treating Dom for a while now and I feel like we’ve made a lot of progress. I hope that’s enough for you, because it’s obvious that you need help.”
Arthur sighs heavily. He really has no other options. As much as he doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to delve too deeply into his own emotional distress, he has nowhere else to go. And he knows he can’t live like this much longer. He’s already tried to end it once. It’s either this, a real attempt at therapy, or death.
“It’s not, but I’m willing to try. I can’t live like this anymore,” he answers honestly.
***
“How are you feeling today, Arthur?”
“Today is better.”
Eames drives Arthur to therapy every Tuesday and Thursday. It’s been a few weeks, and he’s acclimated to living with Cobb, and the kids, as much as he thinks he’s going to. It’s hard being around the children, having to put on a good face. Sometimes he’s just not up to it and stays in his room the entire day. But it is better.
It’s good being around Cobb again. They were friends a long time ago, before Mal died. With the way that Cobb played fast and loose with his life while on the run, he has somehow forgotten that Cobb really was a good father.
It is also helpful being around two people who are of no threat to him. Two little kids who have dealt with grief enough to leave him alone when he really needs it, but who still bug him to play enough to keep him from completely sinking too far into his own head again.
“Good. Good. Shall we go over everything again?”
“I don’t want to today.”
“Arthur, immersion is the best therapy. We’ve gone over the statistics, the methods, and the case studies. You need to be honest with what the real problem is, and I don’t think we’ve gotten to the heart of it yet. Please.”
They’ve been doing this for weeks now. He tells her about the dream and about the beating. He tells her how it felt, physically, to endure the pain of having your face crushed. He tells her of the panic he felt when he knew it wouldn’t be a quick death. He tells her about the fear that it would happen again.
“We’ve gone over it. I suffered a very painful death, but I didn’t die, because it was a dream. I wasn’t meant to remember something like this. That’s it. I’ll get over it,” he bites out.
Dr. Steffe gives him what would be a frustrated look on anyone less sympathetic. Arthur has found that she doesn’t back down, not when she knows she doesn’t have to. They’ve only hit a barrier where she has backed off a few times. He should have learned this by now, but he’s stubborn, and pushes back anyway.
“You’re always more stubborn on your good days,” she says. “Yes we’ve gone over the pain, and the fear aspects. But you’ve said yourself, you’re used to it. You accepted that it was necessary to your mission. So what changed that? You’re a very tough man, Arthur, I can tell. You’ve been through pain before. This isn’t a culmination, a straw that broke the camel’s back type of situation, and I can’t help you until you tell me what the real issue is.”
Arthur doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what she wants to hear. Does she want to hear that it was Eames this did it to him? That it’s the man who faithfully drops him off at the office every few days; the man that has been listed as one of two emergency contacts, because the only people he knows in California is Dom and Eames, is the person who put him here. How could that admission make a difference?
He doesn’t say anything. They sit for the next thirty minutes, not speaking. Arthur would feel vindicated in his selfish act to keep his secret if Dr. Steffe seemed restless, or annoyed. She just sits quietly, looking out the window, or back at him, letting silence fill the room as if it’s not uncomfortable.
When the session is over, Eames is waiting in the parking lot, as usual. He signs himself out at the desk. His shoulders slump forward, ruining his posture. He’s tired all the time. The motivation to do anything just doesn’t exist anymore. Today was useless. It seems like most of his days are useless.
“You’re lucky,” the receptionist says.
“I’m sorry?” Arthur looks up at her, confused. The woman just eyes him fondly from behind her glasses, purple-painted lips drawn up in a smile. Her teeth are a blindingly white against her chocolate skin.
“Your boyfriend, he cares. Most patients don’t have anyone, or if they do, they’re just dropped off like a sack of laundry at a dry cleaner. It’s hard, for everyone. But he’s here for you every appointment.”
He glances out the door, at Eames parked, in the first row of the lot, sitting in the rented car.
“He’s not my boyfriend. He … He’s … He just drops me off.”
The receptionist gives him a disbelieving hum. “He doesn’t just drop you off, honey, he stays the entire time, waiting for you.”
Arthur frowns, brows furling in perplexed frustration. He doesn’t know what to make of her statement. Why would Eames sit in a parking lot for an hour when he could be out doing something in the city? He finishes signing the time on the clipboard, and then heads out to the car.
***
Ariadne arrives a few days later. She apologizes to Eames for being delayed; Arthur didn’t know she was even coming. He watches them hug as Cobb drags her bags to the third guest room. Cobb isn’t surprised to see her here, so Arthur guesses that he’s the last to know she was coming.
There was a time when he knew where each member of his team was, when they moved, and what jobs they are on. He knew their alternate identities, their extra addresses, and their enemy’s whereabouts. He tries not to feel utterly useless, now out of the loop, but doesn’t succeed.
Instead of greeting Ariadne, he makes his way to the back yard, a little overwhelmed. He admits, he’s made a lot of progress, but it’s still difficult. He’s spent a year avoiding everyone he knows, and now nearly everyone he cares about is under the same roof. He sits on the edge of the patio, staring off into the untended garden at the edge of the fence.
“Arthur?”
He turns to see Phillipa standing in the sliding door. She looks uncertain, like she’s afraid of something. She claps her hand on her elbow, mimicking the gesture her father does when he’s nervous, or thinking.
“Yes, Phillipa?”
“Don’t leave us because you’re sad,” she says softly.
The statement reopens the wound of Mal’s death in his heart. He feels like his breath is knocked from his lungs and his eyes begin to tear up. He wasn’t here when Mal was falling apart, he was working too much, but he knew, from the calls Cobb made to him a few times, that she stopped trying to hide her thoughts from the kids.
“I’m not leaving, honey,” he says. “I know you’re real, and that I’m not dreaming, ok? I just had something bad happen that I need some time to recover from? Do you understand that?”
She nods, looking a little sad. He reaches his hand out to her and she takes it lightly in her fingers. He rubs his thumb over her hand, looking into her eyes, which are so like her mothers. He wishes Mal never lost herself, or had tried to get help. He wishes that Phillipa and James never had to lose their mother.
“I know what it’s like to not trust someone that you care about,” he says.
The statement hits him like a kick to the chest. He just said out loud everything that he’s been thinking about, constantly, for the last year. The root of the problem, the entire reason why his world crashed down around him so hard, the reason he’s been fighting to deny: he just said it so plainly to Cobb’s child.
He swallows thickly before continuing, “But I want you to trust that I won’t leave because I’m sad. I’m trying to get help, ok? It’s not going to be like before.”
She nods again, her green eyes filling with tears and her mouth trembling. He pulls her into a hug and she sniffles into his shoulder. He doesn’t try to fight the tears that fall down his own cheeks. He realizes how selfish he’s been. If he just lets everything overwhelm him again, lets his depression take over, he’ll be hurting his friends. He’ll be hurting the people who care for him. He’ll be hurting the children, and Dom, Ariadne and … no, not Eames. Eames feels guilty, but it’s not the same as truly caring.
He knows that he has to get through this. He has to make an effort in therapy. He has to take control again. If he’s going to make it through this, he has to fight for it. He can’t break Phillipa’s heart, not like her mother had. He can’t put her through that again. He can’t put Dom through losing someone again.
“Hey, hey. It’s going to be ok, Phillipa.” He pulls her back to look her in her eyes again. “Don’t cry, ok? I’m going to be alright.”
She wipes tears from her eyes with the back of her hand; they’re red and puffy. She looks somehow older this way. It seems so wrong because tears usually make children seem younger. But the sadness behind her eyes, the knowledge of what depression can lead to, ages her. Again, Arthur wishes she didn’t know what it was like to lose someone. He wishes she didn’t know what it was like to watch someone fall apart.
“Let’s go inside,” he says, wiping the rest of his own tears away. He stands up and holds her hand as they enter the house.
He has two days until his next session. Next time he’ll make a real effort to talk about things. He still doesn’t know exactly how to fix anything, but he’ll try. He’ll try and get to the root of the problem. He’ll do whatever exercises the doctor wants. He’ll do all the immersion therapy and calm breathing, and talking she wants. It’s not just about him, and he knows this now. He has to try.
Part 9