fill: i am the hero of this story (don't need to be saved) [2/6]
anonymous
August 14 2010, 04:21:13 UTC
(For the first time in her life, she is glad she does not dream.
She took down all the pictures of him in the house in a targeted hurricane rage. Her father looked at her, worried; Philippa tugged at the bottom of her shirt and asked Where's Daddy gone? and Mal choked, barely breathing, managed to grit out, He's sleeping.
Miles takes the kids to see their father, and is the one to lie, he'll wake up soon; she can't do it. She can't look at Dom without thinking that he's betrayed her, that they've betrayed each other.
She can't look at him without wanting to grab the IV and slide it into her veins.)
--
Philippa refuses to sleep by herself, the third night Dom is in hospital. She says, I don't want to be alone and burrows into Mal's blankets, tucking her small face against Mal's shoulder, tiny hands fisting themselves in Mal's shirt, which is one of Dom's and so soft. She says, please don't go, and Mal bites her lip to keep from crying, can only wrap her arms around her daughter and whisper, Nothing in the universe could keep me from you.
Phillipa says, That's what Dad said and she is crying, all of a sudden, saying, he isn't coming back, is he.
Mal swallows and kisses Philippa's forehead and says, It's only been three days, darling. Your father's pretty tough. When she smooths the tears away from Philippa's cheeks she feels like a fraud; she wonders what Dom is doing in the dream, without his children.
Their bed still smells like him. She should change the sheets.
--
She should have expected it would be Arthur, knocking on her door one morning, a week after she wakes up. He's wearing a full three-piece, neat and tidy and relentlessly organized; she is wearing a sweatshirt from Dom's alma mater and blue jeans. There's something solid and sad in his eyes. "I'm so sorry," he says.
"Thank you," she says, and then, "you too," because Dom didn't just leave her and the kids; he left the rest of the family too.
They hug and he kisses her cheek. She offers him a cup of tea; they sit in the kitchen with the sun streaming down, shining off his blue silk tie.
"It took me a while to find out," he says, gently. "Miles called." There is no recrimination in it, just gentle observation. Just, I missed you.
"I'm sorry," she says. "I-- you remind me of him."
"You don't have to forget," Arthur says.
She swallows, hands around her cup. "It's different," she says, "when you have kids."
His eyes light up, for a moment, before he looks away.
"Oh, god," she says, "the kids. You'll want to see them--"
"I don't--" Arthur says, but there is longing thick in his voice, and this is Arthur, whom she loves.
"Of course," she says, "Jesus, Arthur. Of course."
He's good with the kids, ruffling James' hair, helping him dig for worms; listening earnestly to Philippa as she tells him about the birds that have nested in the trees out back. He doesn't even wince at the spread of grass and mud stains across his knees.
She sits on the back porch and watches them; the kids won't welcome her intervention in their Uncle-Arthur time. And everything about him reminds her of jobs, of the way they'd dive into people's minds, a high nothing else could replicate; the way pure creation would light up her husband's face and the way all three of them had fit together, perfect.
He says, "Mal?" He's standing up, now, looking at her carefully, like she is something fragile. Behind him, the kids are engrossed in something James has dug up.
"I'm sorry about your suit," she laughs, "my dry cleaner is amazing."
He blinks, and looks down, and wrinkles his nose. "Price you pay," he grins, and then James is tugging at his hand, and he is bending away.
She took down all the pictures of him in the house in a targeted hurricane rage. Her father looked at her, worried; Philippa tugged at the bottom of her shirt and asked Where's Daddy gone? and Mal choked, barely breathing, managed to grit out, He's sleeping.
Miles takes the kids to see their father, and is the one to lie, he'll wake up soon; she can't do it. She can't look at Dom without thinking that he's betrayed her, that they've betrayed each other.
She can't look at him without wanting to grab the IV and slide it into her veins.)
--
Philippa refuses to sleep by herself, the third night Dom is in hospital. She says, I don't want to be alone and burrows into Mal's blankets, tucking her small face against Mal's shoulder, tiny hands fisting themselves in Mal's shirt, which is one of Dom's and so soft. She says, please don't go, and Mal bites her lip to keep from crying, can only wrap her arms around her daughter and whisper, Nothing in the universe could keep me from you.
Phillipa says, That's what Dad said and she is crying, all of a sudden, saying, he isn't coming back, is he.
Mal swallows and kisses Philippa's forehead and says, It's only been three days, darling. Your father's pretty tough. When she smooths the tears away from Philippa's cheeks she feels like a fraud; she wonders what Dom is doing in the dream, without his children.
Their bed still smells like him. She should change the sheets.
--
She should have expected it would be Arthur, knocking on her door one morning, a week after she wakes up. He's wearing a full three-piece, neat and tidy and relentlessly organized; she is wearing a sweatshirt from Dom's alma mater and blue jeans. There's something solid and sad in his eyes. "I'm so sorry," he says.
"Thank you," she says, and then, "you too," because Dom didn't just leave her and the kids; he left the rest of the family too.
They hug and he kisses her cheek. She offers him a cup of tea; they sit in the kitchen with the sun streaming down, shining off his blue silk tie.
"It took me a while to find out," he says, gently. "Miles called." There is no recrimination in it, just gentle observation. Just, I missed you.
"I'm sorry," she says. "I-- you remind me of him."
"You don't have to forget," Arthur says.
She swallows, hands around her cup. "It's different," she says, "when you have kids."
His eyes light up, for a moment, before he looks away.
"Oh, god," she says, "the kids. You'll want to see them--"
"I don't--" Arthur says, but there is longing thick in his voice, and this is Arthur, whom she loves.
"Of course," she says, "Jesus, Arthur. Of course."
He's good with the kids, ruffling James' hair, helping him dig for worms; listening earnestly to Philippa as she tells him about the birds that have nested in the trees out back. He doesn't even wince at the spread of grass and mud stains across his knees.
She sits on the back porch and watches them; the kids won't welcome her intervention in their Uncle-Arthur time. And everything about him reminds her of jobs, of the way they'd dive into people's minds, a high nothing else could replicate; the way pure creation would light up her husband's face and the way all three of them had fit together, perfect.
He says, "Mal?" He's standing up, now, looking at her carefully, like she is something fragile. Behind him, the kids are engrossed in something James has dug up.
"I'm sorry about your suit," she laughs, "my dry cleaner is amazing."
He blinks, and looks down, and wrinkles his nose. "Price you pay," he grins, and then James is tugging at his hand, and he is bending away.
--
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