055
Title: Lelow
Chapter: 1/?
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don’t own Inception.
Pairing/Characters: Arthur/Eames, Phillipa, Mal, James, Cobb
Summary: In which the sky is green, Phillipa has a new favorite movie, Eames is not there, and Arthur is uncomfortable.
Author’s Note: So, the sequel to Yellow. ::gasp:: I'm so shocked I actually got this out the day after the other one finished. Let's hope I stay with this awesome pace. My goodness, what have you done to me Inception fandom? Oh, and this is just a tentative title right now. It'll probably change but I'm seriously terrible at coming up with them so yeah....
Previous Series: Yellow One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven
--
James lies on his stomach as he colors the sky a bright green. Mal crouches next to him, hand resting on his back. “It looks very pretty,” she says softly. James tilts his head up and smiles at his mother. “Isn’t the sky blue though?”
“I like green.” The crayon moves along, scribbling more swirls.
“Ah, yes.” She squeezes his shoulder. “Finish up, Uncle Arthur will be here for you soon,” she murmurs.
She stands and makes her way down the hall. Phillipa sits on her bed with her legs crossed. She’s running a brush through one of her doll’s hair. Mal watches her. Watches the way her fingers move the combed hair aside; the way her forehead furrows as she concentrates, the way she bites her lip. Mal lets her eyes trace over Phillipa’s blonde hair, the freckle above her top lip, the pale pink painted fingernails.
She tries to believe this is her daughter.
Phillipa looks up and her face scrunches into a questioning look. “Mommy?” she asks. “Are we going now?”
Mal lets go of the door frame she didn’t realize she was gripping. She crosses the carpeted floor, enters the room of pale pink and bright yellow, smoothes a hand over the rumpled bedspread. Phillipa’s small suitcase sits at the foot of the bed with her backpack on top of it.
“You look sad again, Mommy.”
“Ah, ma Cherie, I am not.” She presses a kiss to the child’s forehead. Phillipa’s eyes stare at her and she tries to see herself in them, tries to see Dom in them. “You are very good,” she murmurs absently.
“I haven’t hit James,” Phillipa agrees. Her small hand reaches out, touches the string of pearls at her mother’s throat. “I’ll miss you, Mommy.” Her face turns earnest, eyes wide and searching. “You’ll miss me, right?”
Mal’s smile trembles. “I miss you every day,” she replies. Downstairs the doorbell rings and Mal stands. “Come on, Phillipa.”
--
Arthur studies Mal secretly as he straps James into the borrowed car seat. James waves around his new Transformer action figure. Mal puts the suitcases in the back of the car. Her eyes are distant as she stares off down the road.
“All set?” he asks. He closes the door and she startles. “Are you alright, Mal?”
She laughs; it’s more carefree than he’s heard it in awhile. He’s surprised but maybe the last two months Cobb’s stayed home have been good for her. Her hand reaches to brush curls behind her ear, the afternoon sun catches on the white scar.
“Yes, just lost in thought.” Her hand disappears into a pocket and he’s seen the action enough times to know she’s checking her top. “Thank you, once again, Arthur. Dom and I are very grateful for all you have done for us.” Her eyes dart to the car. Phillipa has a picture book open upside down and is reading it to James. “The children love you,” she murmurs.
“Yes, well, they aren’t too bad.” He tosses his keys once, then stops, refuses to fidget nervously. “You and Cobb have fun, okay? Just don’t bring another one home,” he jerks his head to the car.
Mal’s smile widens. “No, of course not. I miss the two enough already.”
“And they haven’t even left the driveway yet.” He hesitates another moment, feels the urge to say something but isn’t sure what to say. How to say it. He wishes Eames were here instead of on a job in Bern for a moment before pulling himself together. “Happy anniversary, to you both. I can’t believe it’s been seven years now.”
Her smile seems off and he can’t place how. “Neither can I.”
--
Phillipa skips from the elevator to his door. Her backpack bounces and she clutches her caterpillar toy to her chest. James fell asleep in the car and now he’s drooling against Arthur’s right shoulder as he hefts both of their bags in his other hand. “Can we watch a movie while James sleeps?” Phillipa asks while he searches for his key. “He talks all the time.”
“We’ll do whatever you want,” he agrees.
Phillipa bounces on her toes. Arthur finally gets the door open and Phillipa rushes in. Arthur follows, slower, and locks the door behind him. He’s glad he thought to make up the pull out sofa before picking them up. He deposits James on the bed, pulls the sheet up after the boy’s shoes are removed.
When he enters the living room Phillipa has the contents of her backpack spread on the coffee table. “Daddy got me this last week,” she announces. She removes a DVD case and beams up at Arthur.
Arthur takes the case from her, quirks an eyebrow. “Alvin and the Chipmunks: The Squeakquel,” Arthur reads. “They sing?”
“Uh-huh.” She lies on the sofa; things still strewn across the middle of his floor, and wraps her arms around her caterpillar. “We can watch it?”
“Mmhm,” Arthur agrees. He pops the DVD in and turns on the TV before sitting next to her. She twists her body so her head rests on his thigh. Absently he runs his fingers through her hair as the previews start.
“Uncle Arthur why did Mommy and Daddy go away?”
“They’re celebrating a special time, just for them. It’ll be very boring, eating salads and fish, going to see an opera-”
“What’s an opera?”
“A type of play that makes your ears hurt,” Arthur replies. He smiles. “It’s their wedding anniversary, Pip. They’ve been married for seven years now.”
Phillipa tilts her head back and studies him. “How long you been married to Eames?”
Arthur sputters and stares at her. “We’re not married, Pip. We’re friends, close friends. We are not married,” he repeats firmly. He shows her his hand as proof.
Phillipa does the famous Cobb eye-squint up at him. She squeezes the caterpillar tight. Fortunately the high pitched singing from the TV catches her attention. “Hit play, Uncle Arthur,” she orders. She snuggles into him; the caterpillar gets squished under her chin, one fuzzy pink antenna on each side of her face. Her right hand snakes up, arm pressed against the caterpillar's forehead as she sucks her thumb absently.
Arthur hits play and wills away a headache.