Breaking Temper, by kunstundtechnik (R)

[bookshop.livejournal.com]

Fandom: INCEPTION, The Chocolate War
Title: Breaking Temper
Pairing: Arthur/Eames, background Cobb/Mal, implied Arthur/Mal and Eames/Robert.
Length: 22,000
Author on LJ: kunstundtechnik
Author Website: fics on author's LJ
Why this must be read: Heads up: this is not your average high school AU. Sometimes you just have to rec fics because they hurt so good, and if there's ever a formula destined to fuck your shit up and leave you crying for more, it's the combination of kunstundtechnik, whose fics are smooth and satisfying as bitter dark chocolate, and Robert Cormier's classically bleak YA novel The Chocolate War.

The amazing thing about crossovers is that when they're done right they make you see both universes in new ways, and the effect of putting each of the members of the Inception team into the darkly satirical roles in The Chocolate War is that the absurdity of the social rituals Cormier attacks becomes even more absurd, even more terrifying. Mal as the calculating and unflinching leader of the Vigils is chilling and believable, as are Saito as the teacher who spurs them on, and Robert as the holdout who refuses to follow the rules. And, of course, Eames and Arthur who get caught in the middle of it all.

Just as in Cormier's novel, for all its moments of lightness and comedy, the stakes are ultimately just as high as they are in Inception--and even higher, because this is reality. And if ever you forgot that the characters of Inception are amoral criminals and mind violators whom you love because despite this, they're also perfectly, imperfectly human, you're about to be reminded in the best/worst way. Weatherfront said in her review that this fic was 22,000 words of "pure fucking sleaze," and I really can't think of higher praise.

"You can tell us, Robert," she insisted. "Think of this as group therapy. We're all here to help."

Again, the swallowing. Again, Arthur imagined he could hear the muscles moving the saliva down Fischer's throat. It seemed to go on forever before Fischer finally said, "No."

"No, what? No, friends, I don't want your help? No, Mal, you're wrong about the chocolates?" Her voice, though still quiet and seductive, was starting to lose its flirting edge. Arthur sensed the air shifting. She was done playing. It was time to swoop in, to put her teeth on his skin and press down.

"Both," said Fischer nervously. "I don't want your help. And it's not related to my dad. I'm not selling the chocolates because I just don't want to."

"You don't want to?" Mal asked, incredulous. Fischer nodded. A beat passed while Mal surveyed his expression, that fake sincerity still plastered on her face. "Hey Eames," she called out, getting up off of Fischer's lap in one smooth motion.

Eames startled. He was standing so close to Arthur, their arms almost touching, that Arthur could actually feel him jump. "Right," Eames answered, glancing wildly at Arthur, and Arthur could only raise his shoulder a little. He didn't know either. Fischer, too, had a look as if Mal had physically stung him. Mal herself was radiant, standing beside the partially depleted box of chocolates, her hip resting against the table.

"Do you want to come to school every day, Eames?" she asked.

"No."

"What about football practice? Are you always up for it? Always ready to put in 110%?" She made a passable imitation of the Coach's growl in the last few words. The intonation was laughable coming from Mal. Under any other circumstance, it might have lightened the proceedings, but here, it seemed to only make the tension worse.

"Hell, no."

"But you do it anyway, don't you?"

"Hell, yes." Laughter greeted the answer. Relief flooded Arthur, and he allowed himself to share a small smile with Eames. But a quick look from Mal wiped the amusement from Arthur's face. She was dead serious, her lips tight and thin, eyes flashing. She had something on her face that looked like a smile, used all the same muscles as one, but Arthur knew it was only the carcass of her earlier performance. She had tossed the red dress aside, and stood unadorned and deadly before them.

"See, chéri?" Mal made her way back to Fischer, still seated in his chair. She put her hand on her chin, and again, he jerked away, without any success. She gazed down at him, unmoved. "Everyone," she said, with a solemnity that, oddly, was more real than any other emotion she had shown so far, "has to do things in this world they don't want to."

Then she straightened up and sighed, as if she was overwhelmed with a great inexpressible sadness. "Okay, Fischer," she said, finality ringing in every word. "Enough playing around. You've disobeyed The Vigils. That calls for punishment. Although The Vigils don't believe in violence, we have found it necessary to devise a punishment code of sorts. But we're letting you off easy, Robert. Consider it our gift, for your personal situation. We're just asking you to take the chocolates tomorrow, and sell them."

Here it comes, Arthur thought. The end of Fischer, the end of this godforsaken chocolate sale. Fischer would say yes, of course. No one said no to Mal, for long

But Fischer seemed distracted. He had succeeded in freeing his chin from her grasp and had taken to gazing at the crowd in the shadows now, searching for something. Mal, confused, turned to look too, but for once, she couldn't see anything of worth in the crowd. They had all missed a beat somewhere, she and Arthur and everyone else, and now the whole room was waiting for Fischer to speak, to tell them what it was.

"Eames," Fischer suddenly called out. "Eames, are you really here? Are you really a part of this?"

Unease rippled across the room. Arthur turned towards Eames instinctively, holding his breath. Fischer continued, oblivious to the staggering silence, "Eames, you don't really mean this, do you? Why are you here with these guys?"

Eames made a funny lurch forward, hunkering down, rounding his massive shoulders. Arthur saw him as if he was on the field-- he'd been thrown an interception, it was his turn to run the ball all the way to the goal. On the one side, Mal. On the other side, Fischer, coming in for the tackle. For god's sake, Arthur thought frantically at him, don't say anything, and, as if Arthur had gotten through, Eames relaxed again, grinding his jaw and clenching his fist, but nonetheless content to leave the questions unanswered.

But Fischer wasn't done, apparently. His voice sounded much stronger than it had earlier, shaking under Mal's questions. He seemed to be trying to shame Eames enough to come forward. Smoking him out, driving him into a corner. "Why did you tell me it was okay to do my own thing, then?" Fischer demanded, his eyes darting from one side of the room to another, looking for Eames. "Why did you tell me it was okay? Didn't you tell me I needed to be my own man? Were you just saying it to make fun of me?"

"Fischer," Mal snapped. Actually snapped, her fingers in front of his face. "Let's not have any crap. Did you hear what I said? About the chocolates?"

"Eames, talk to me--" Fischer called out again, but this time Cobb interjected, bringing his gavel down on the table. The loud crack was, on the best of days, startling in the stuffy room. In the current confusion, the violence of it exploded like someone snapping a bone or smashing open concrete. Everyone fell silent again.

"That's enough," Cobb said. "This meeting is dismissed." He looked straight at Fischer, avoiding the murderous looks Mal was throwing his way to not interfere. "Fischer, get the hell out of here."

For a minute, though, no one moved. Fischer had his own reasons for being confused, but The Vigils, Arthur included, were frozen with indecision. Since Cobb's presidency and Mal's reign as Architect, she had been the one to dismiss every meeting, big or small, called for a commission or merely perfunctory. She had run the meetings her way, not anyone else's, and to have Cobb step in, as if he were coming to Mal's rescue, shook the room like an invisible blow.

A thought swept through Arthur's mind then: this might ruin the chocolate sale. And fast on the heels of that one, a more terrifying possibility: this might be the end of The Vigils. After all this time, not some ordinance from the administration, not Mal fucking up, not even the student body revolting. Just one terrified freshman. One fifteen year old boy, ready to shit his pants as she sat in his lap. But for the first time, Cobb was openly defying Mal. For the first time, something hadn't gone completely Mal's way-- had, in fact, slipped wildly from her control.

And despite all the confusion, the disbelief, Arthur was sure of one thing: Robert Maurice Fischer Jr. was never going to sell the chocolates.

Breaking Temper