fill: i am the hero of this story (don't need to be saved) [4/6]
anonymous
August 14 2010, 04:30:40 UTC
"You really don't even want to try to get him out?" Arthur asks. He is wearing an peach ascot. She has no idea where he got it from, since he arrived in a tie with nothing else, but this has always been one of Arthur's talents.
"Of course I do," she says, sharp edge showing through her voice. "Arthur." She has stopped wearing the ring because it makes her think about the train; there is a paler patch of skin where it was. She traces the tip of her index finger across it. "I love him more than--" she swallows. "I don't love him more than I love our children."
"They deserve to have their dad," he says. There is old hurt, decades-old pain settled in those words. She remembers when he was young and angry and brilliantly theirs; remembers how long it took them to piece him together, to make him function. She remembers how he looked at Dom, holding Philippa right after she was born, nothing but naked longing in his eyes. She remembers how it took him forever to realize that they wanted him, that they weren't going to let him go.
"Do you have any idea what his security is like?" she asks, "do you have any idea what my security is like?"
"So you're the only one who can get in," he says, calmly. "You'd need backup, obviously--"
"We could go four layers," she says, "without even seeing Dom, just his projections. We could get trapped in there--"
"We'll develop a better compound," he says, and she blinks at the we, at the matter of fact practicality in the crisp lines of his cuffs. "What, you think I wasn't gonna-- I love him too, Mal."
She swallows. "I asked him to come with me," she says. "He didn't. I can't-- I have to live with that."
His eyes skitter away from hers, down to his hands in his lap. "Okay," he says.
--
He lets it go for the next couple of weeks, dropping by for a couple of days at a time to delight her children and make her food and mock the terrible daytime television she finds herself watching. He even starts showing up in jeans and button-downs, which is like sweatpants for Arthur; she thinks it is because he is actually fonder of his suits than he is of most people, a feeling that neither James nor Philippa shares.
One night, after the kids are asleep, she asks him if he's working; he blinks at her, innocuous, and says, in French, "You think I could do that without you?" and her heart wrenches, bile rises in her throat; she feels immensely, inexorably guilty and has to look away.
"Thank you for coming," she says, softly. "Thank you for not being angry with me." He was, after all, Dom's before he was hers; angry and broken and fascinated by the dreams Dom could build him.
"I wasn't there," he says, "god, Mal. Of course I wouldn't be angry with you."
She loves him, so much. "You're allowed to be upset," she says. "You're allowed to be angry."
He reaches out, and takes her hand. "I'm both of those things," he says, gently. "But I also know how to deal with them. I have a plan."
She laughs like her heart is breaking. "Oh, god, Arthur," she says, and drops her head on his shoulder. "We're such a goddamn mess."
"We'll get it fixed," he says, too light; too much like vulnerable, for Arthur. "It'll be okay." The eventually is unspoken, obvious.
She closes her eyes, and forces herself still, so she does not shake apart.
--
He bakes cookies with the kids, chocolate chip and oatmeal and raisin; at first Philippa sets aside a couple out of every batch, tin-foil wrapped on a Winnie-the-Pooh plate. She doesn't tell Mal why, who they're for; but Mal is a smart woman, and her daughter is an open book. Later, Phillipa stops. Mal finds the plate in pieces; it brings her close to tears.
They share dinner duties: she makes salad, most days, and does the dishes; he does mac and cheese, and burgers, and occasionally stuff that's slightly more refined. It feels domestic, kind of comfortable; but an odd kind of comfortable, the kind with a massive gaping hole in the shape of her husband right at the heart of it.
She stops wearing Dom's shirts, goes back to her dresses; allows herself to feel damaged sometimes, but also to heal just a little.
He stops going back to his house. His clothes migrate into the guest bedroom's closet.
"Of course I do," she says, sharp edge showing through her voice. "Arthur." She has stopped wearing the ring because it makes her think about the train; there is a paler patch of skin where it was. She traces the tip of her index finger across it. "I love him more than--" she swallows. "I don't love him more than I love our children."
"They deserve to have their dad," he says. There is old hurt, decades-old pain settled in those words. She remembers when he was young and angry and brilliantly theirs; remembers how long it took them to piece him together, to make him function. She remembers how he looked at Dom, holding Philippa right after she was born, nothing but naked longing in his eyes. She remembers how it took him forever to realize that they wanted him, that they weren't going to let him go.
"Do you have any idea what his security is like?" she asks, "do you have any idea what my security is like?"
"So you're the only one who can get in," he says, calmly. "You'd need backup, obviously--"
"We could go four layers," she says, "without even seeing Dom, just his projections. We could get trapped in there--"
"We'll develop a better compound," he says, and she blinks at the we, at the matter of fact practicality in the crisp lines of his cuffs. "What, you think I wasn't gonna-- I love him too, Mal."
She swallows. "I asked him to come with me," she says. "He didn't. I can't-- I have to live with that."
His eyes skitter away from hers, down to his hands in his lap. "Okay," he says.
--
He lets it go for the next couple of weeks, dropping by for a couple of days at a time to delight her children and make her food and mock the terrible daytime television she finds herself watching. He even starts showing up in jeans and button-downs, which is like sweatpants for Arthur; she thinks it is because he is actually fonder of his suits than he is of most people, a feeling that neither James nor Philippa shares.
One night, after the kids are asleep, she asks him if he's working; he blinks at her, innocuous, and says, in French, "You think I could do that without you?" and her heart wrenches, bile rises in her throat; she feels immensely, inexorably guilty and has to look away.
"Thank you for coming," she says, softly. "Thank you for not being angry with me." He was, after all, Dom's before he was hers; angry and broken and fascinated by the dreams Dom could build him.
"I wasn't there," he says, "god, Mal. Of course I wouldn't be angry with you."
She loves him, so much. "You're allowed to be upset," she says. "You're allowed to be angry."
He reaches out, and takes her hand. "I'm both of those things," he says, gently. "But I also know how to deal with them. I have a plan."
She laughs like her heart is breaking. "Oh, god, Arthur," she says, and drops her head on his shoulder. "We're such a goddamn mess."
"We'll get it fixed," he says, too light; too much like vulnerable, for Arthur. "It'll be okay." The eventually is unspoken, obvious.
She closes her eyes, and forces herself still, so she does not shake apart.
--
He bakes cookies with the kids, chocolate chip and oatmeal and raisin; at first Philippa sets aside a couple out of every batch, tin-foil wrapped on a Winnie-the-Pooh plate. She doesn't tell Mal why, who they're for; but Mal is a smart woman, and her daughter is an open book. Later, Phillipa stops. Mal finds the plate in pieces; it brings her close to tears.
They share dinner duties: she makes salad, most days, and does the dishes; he does mac and cheese, and burgers, and occasionally stuff that's slightly more refined. It feels domestic, kind of comfortable; but an odd kind of comfortable, the kind with a massive gaping hole in the shape of her husband right at the heart of it.
She stops wearing Dom's shirts, goes back to her dresses; allows herself to feel damaged sometimes, but also to heal just a little.
He stops going back to his house. His clothes migrate into the guest bedroom's closet.
--
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