fill: i am the hero of this story (don't need to be saved) [3/6]
anonymous
August 14 2010, 04:23:19 UTC
Later the kids relinquish him and they sit at the dining table and drink a nice red Dom brought home last week (last week, or fifty years ago plus change). He keeps shooting looks she can't read at her over the rim of his glass.
"All right," she says, "what do you want."
His eyes widen. "I--" he says. "Mal--"
"We were experimenting," she says. "we went deep, three layers. I woke up, he didn't. It won't happen to anyone who isn't stupid."
"Mal," he says. "Are you all right?"
She stares into her glass, tosses it back. The wine hits the back of her throat hard. "Of course not," she says. "He wouldn't come back with me." She thinks, I let a train run over me for him, and he wouldn't jump off a goddamn building.
They sit, in silence for a long time. Then Arthur says, "I'll make dinner."
"What," she says.
"It's getting late," he says. "You've been drinking."
He is a good cook. She knows this about him, knows this because they used to stay up late and plan jobs and occasionally Dom would say, needling, we should get some pizza and Arthur would say, goddamn it, fine and stalk off to make something quick and elaborate and delicious. "Not in that suit," she says. "I'll get you some of Dom's clothes." She doesn't even wince when she says his name. She is getting better, every day.
He raises an eyebrow. "Because they'll fit."
She eyebrows back at him. "They won't need dry-cleaning." --
"I should go," he says. It is late, now; the kids are in bed. They have been sitting on the couch with a space in between them; he has been watching her, as though if he looks hard enough he will see a crack and be able to super-glue it. Outside the moon is up, and fireflies have come out.
"Stay the night," she says. "I have too many spare toothbrushes. The guest room is nice." She likes having him here; she has missed his familiarity. It helps to soothe the ache of Dom's abandonment.
"Thanks," he says, and looks a little surprised. "Mal, you haven't-- gone after him."
"He's an architect," she says. "I'm good, but I'm not-- I'm not that good." And, she thinks, she cannot risk not coming back. She will not orphan James and Philippa; they are her children and she loves them, even more than she loves her husband, when it comes down to it, because she can protect them. "Do you want to shower? I'll get you a towel."
--
He sits on the edge of her bed like he's a kid; the sun isn't even up yet, and Philippa is curled up against Mal's side, nose twitching, like puppies when they dream.
"Good morning, Arthur," Mal says. She sits up carefully, so she doesn't move her daughter.
Dom's sweats are hanging loose on Arthur's hips. His hair is ruffled and gel-free and he looks about five years younger. "Morning, Mal," he says. "I just got a call." The if you're interested is unspoken, but there.
"Jesus," she says. She is a good extractor, but she can't do this without her architect. She doesn't want to; the idea of dreaming, even now, makes her feel sick. "Arthur, I don't do that anymore."
"Okay," he says, carefully light. "I'm just putting it out there. That you can, if you want."
"Which I don't," she says.
"But," he says, words feather-light, tentative, as he floats it, "how do you think we are going to assemble a team that can get into his head if we don't practice first?" (Dom was always the reckless one, not him, she thinks. Dom was always the one who threw put aside caution like consciousness.)
She sucks in a breath, can't even exhale for the wanting. She rubs her eyes with the heel of her hand. "What do you want for breakfast?" she asks. It is a clumsy segue but he lets it pass.
"All right," she says, "what do you want."
His eyes widen. "I--" he says. "Mal--"
"We were experimenting," she says. "we went deep, three layers. I woke up, he didn't. It won't happen to anyone who isn't stupid."
"Mal," he says. "Are you all right?"
She stares into her glass, tosses it back. The wine hits the back of her throat hard. "Of course not," she says. "He wouldn't come back with me." She thinks, I let a train run over me for him, and he wouldn't jump off a goddamn building.
They sit, in silence for a long time. Then Arthur says, "I'll make dinner."
"What," she says.
"It's getting late," he says. "You've been drinking."
He is a good cook. She knows this about him, knows this because they used to stay up late and plan jobs and occasionally Dom would say, needling, we should get some pizza and Arthur would say, goddamn it, fine and stalk off to make something quick and elaborate and delicious. "Not in that suit," she says. "I'll get you some of Dom's clothes." She doesn't even wince when she says his name. She is getting better, every day.
He raises an eyebrow. "Because they'll fit."
She eyebrows back at him. "They won't need dry-cleaning."
--
"I should go," he says. It is late, now; the kids are in bed. They have been sitting on the couch with a space in between them; he has been watching her, as though if he looks hard enough he will see a crack and be able to super-glue it. Outside the moon is up, and fireflies have come out.
"Stay the night," she says. "I have too many spare toothbrushes. The guest room is nice." She likes having him here; she has missed his familiarity. It helps to soothe the ache of Dom's abandonment.
"Thanks," he says, and looks a little surprised. "Mal, you haven't-- gone after him."
"He's an architect," she says. "I'm good, but I'm not-- I'm not that good." And, she thinks, she cannot risk not coming back. She will not orphan James and Philippa; they are her children and she loves them, even more than she loves her husband, when it comes down to it, because she can protect them. "Do you want to shower? I'll get you a towel."
--
He sits on the edge of her bed like he's a kid; the sun isn't even up yet, and Philippa is curled up against Mal's side, nose twitching, like puppies when they dream.
"Good morning, Arthur," Mal says. She sits up carefully, so she doesn't move her daughter.
Dom's sweats are hanging loose on Arthur's hips. His hair is ruffled and gel-free and he looks about five years younger. "Morning, Mal," he says. "I just got a call." The if you're interested is unspoken, but there.
"Jesus," she says. She is a good extractor, but she can't do this without her architect. She doesn't want to; the idea of dreaming, even now, makes her feel sick. "Arthur, I don't do that anymore."
"Okay," he says, carefully light. "I'm just putting it out there. That you can, if you want."
"Which I don't," she says.
"But," he says, words feather-light, tentative, as he floats it, "how do you think we are going to assemble a team that can get into his head if we don't practice first?" (Dom was always the reckless one, not him, she thinks. Dom was always the one who threw put aside caution like consciousness.)
She sucks in a breath, can't even exhale for the wanting. She rubs her eyes with the heel of her hand. "What do you want for breakfast?" she asks. It is a clumsy segue but he lets it pass.
--
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