Authors Note: Okay! So I got this idea while listening to... I think it was Placebo's fuck you or something. One of their songs. Anyway, I had the idea that what if Mal was kinda like how she is in Cobb's mind. Then I thought, What if she was always like this to Arthur? What if she lured him in, while he was young and volatile and she twisted him. What if he thought they belonged together.
I don't know if I got the meaning across in this fic. And Arthur may seem a bit out of character. Also, there's a bit of Arthur/Eames at the end, because I needed to pair him up with someone else and I don't like the Ariadne/Arthur pairing much. I'm not sure if it's M worthy, but in my brain it's a bit graphic. So yeah.
So all in all, I don't like it much. But I do?
I don't own, don't profit, just have fun babysitting Christopher Nolan's characters. Please enjoy!
(Oh, to anyone who cares, this fic doesn't mean I've quit doing my other one. I just find that when I'm trying to write something quickly, it gets miserable. So it's coming slowly.)
All translations are at the bottom of the fic. DANKE! :D
You're fifteen when you meet Mallorie. She's sweet, delicate and profoundly French in the charm she displays. She has a way of working her way into any one's life with such ease that it should be impossible. You're not like her- you're a full four years, one month and twelve days younger than her, clumsy, abusive and brutal in an obvious way. Miles says you have potential – for what? – And that it will show eventually, after the therapy, after the anger management sessions, after you're turned into a new person. Mal knows you as Arthur Holmwood - like the Dracula character? She chuckles. Very original! – But that isn't your name. Still, what Miles says goes. You'd rather have a ridiculous name than go back to where you've come from.
You fall for her, fast and hard. And apparently, she likes you too. Your heart is hers within a fortnight.
The rest of you belongs to her within a month.
You've never seen love before, so you have no idea how she's meant to show it. You've heard stories, from your time living rough, about people who kill for who they love and you think that you'd do that for her. You know you would do it for her. You understand that if needs be, that's how you'd show your love for her.
Mal shows her love through pain. Nails scraping down your back when you're inside her, each line raw and bleeding. Bite marks on the shoulder when you're kissing her neck. Swollen and split lips, bruised cheekbones. She even broke two of your ribs that time. That's how much she loves you.
Mallorie loves you so much it hurts. One day, you vow to make her Mallorie Holmwood, because that's the name that belongs. She's not too old for you. She's not anyone else's.
Dom Cobb stands only three inches taller than you, despite the fact he's five years older. You know in moments that you could take him down, pin him to the floor and beat the living shit out of him because he shouldn't be looking at your Mallorie like that. She's yours, and if he touches her, you'll kill him repeatedly. Mal would do the same if another girl came a long in your life. She's told you that so many times.
Mal announces to Miles and to you that Dom is her boyfriend. Dom smiles kindly at you, and you just sit as still as a statue. What is this guy here for? Is he here to make sure you're no longer hers? You think so.
Dom tries to be friends with you. You let him, to a certain extent, pretending you find his jokes funny and that he's awesome in your eyes. It's not hard to act like you admire him. In fact, if it weren't for the fact he's dating Mal, you'd actually like him a lot.
She tells you that night, after Dom leaves, that no one can ever know about the two of you. I love you, Arthur, She tells you, clasping your hands so tight your fingers scream in protest, and you reply Ne me mens pas, Mal, even though it hurts and you hate to say anything like it.
She drops your hands, looking as if you've hit her. You instantly wish you never told her anything.
I will show you, Arthur. Permettez-moi de vous montrer, she whispers urgently. You nod.
Vous n'aurez plus jamais à douter de moi à nouveau, She whispers. Her fingers graze your pale, scarred wrists.
The knife is cold; it digs deep into your skin. You know she does not lie.
She shows her love for you more and more often, now that Dom visits all the time. You make love to her, panting and pushing each other over the edge, and then she'll return the favour. Sometimes, she'll bruise you, others she burns you. Occasionally, if Dom has stayed for a night, she'll press her nails into a fresh wound, and, when she announces she's moving out, that she's engaged to him, she drags the knife all the way up your forearm.
When you're in the hospital, Miles thinks you tried to kill yourself. Mallorie tells you that she couldn't bare for you to live the rest of your life without her.
Dom Cobb brings grapes and frowns a lot. You don't like him. You want to hit him in his smug face.
Mallorie leaves, stays in a small and beautiful villa further south than you with Dom now that they're married. She's expecting her first child - a girl, she says on the phone - and then when she visits tells you that you may just be the father. Are you excited? Scared? Angry? You don't know yet.
You're nineteen when she tells you this. You're twenty when Phillipa is born, and the girl thankfully looks completely like Mal and her side of the family. But the colour of the child's eyes are unmistakeably the same as yours. Of course, Dom doesn't suspect a thing.
Instead, he asks you to be godfather. You agree, with the fakest smile you'll ever wear.
You and Dom -or Cobb, as you eventually begin to call him out of habit- actually become kind of friends as you hit twenty-three. Your skin still bares the fresh marks of Mal's recent visits, but your new found partner believes what he wants, thinks it's the 'depression' you've always had, so he never asks. Nobody asks.
You thank god they don't. Nobody would understand the love Mal has for you. She shows it in such a special way, that you know nobody would get it.
Nobody has ever felt the real love of Mallorie Miles. Only you.
You move out, leaving Miles, leaving town, and part of you wonders why Mallorie Cobb isn't with you. She was meant to be yours, to be your wife. She's had your daughter, why not marry her too?
Je suis désolé, Arthur. She whispers. I can't. I am having his baby.
Putting the phone down, you wish she wasn't.
They call him James. You're Godfather, again, but it hurts less this time because the boy isn't your son.
Phillipa calls you Uncle Arthur. Never daddy, like she calls Dom. She calls you Uncle Arthur or Uncle Artie. Her hair is the same colour as yours, her eyes the exact same shade.
Nobody mentions that in actual fact, the girl is the spitting image of you now she's a bit older. You think Miles probably knows. He gives you that kind of look whenever you give her piggy-backs across the back garden.
You're twenty-four years, four months and thirteen days when you do your first job with Cobb. You're what is called a 'Point Man'. Miles explains to you how important you are to your Team. It's you, Cobb as an 'Architect', Mal as the 'Extractor' and a few passing stranger strangers named Charlotte or Eames or Daniel or Jake or Grayson as the 'Forger's. All of these professions are explained to you over time, and they each in turn become part of you and your memory. Mal comes and goes, leaving lace underwear and cigarette ashes around the apartment you own. She's not the only person that visits though- not any more.
You become a different person over time. Whoever you were before Mal came along is gone- you don't even remember his (your) name- is long gone. You wear tailored suits now, slick back your hair now, work hard and drink enough liquid energy to fuel a factory for a year now. Cobb calls you his little brother. You rely on him.
Mal's visits come less often. You find yourself in the hands of Mr Eames on more than one occasion, shouting his name and feeling something other than trails of blood running down your torso. It's a nice change. It's also a strange change.
A change you could make permanent though, you think.
Nous sommes toujours rêver, Arthur. Nous sommes dans un rêve.
Non, Mal. Nous ne rêvez pas. You breathe onto her skin. Cela est d'autant vrai. Il s'agit de votre vie.
She stares at you with that look in her eyes you can't decipher, can't bear to look at any more.
How do you know? She whispers.
She's dead the next day. Jumped out of a twelfth story window. You take the kids to her funeral, because Cobb is already running away from the charges been hit with. You don't know if he's guilty or not.
I loved her, Arthur. How could you ever think any different?
When you finally work with Dom again, Mal is there. In his head, and she's everything you knew lived behind closed doors. Cobb doesn't understand the way his wife is now so twisted, so angry and so violent, but this is the only Mal that you've ever really known. It's almost a relief. You realise that, even in death, even in Cobb's mind, you're still hers.
She's more creative now: Pushing you off buildings, shooting you in any possible place – the knee is a favourite, because it's so goddamn painful – and pushing long slivers of glass into your gut, your heart, your lung. Then she's gone.
The ache in your chest when you wake up is the only reminder that she was real.
What is love?
Is it what Mal showed you? The pain, in so many different forms - needles, knives, boiling water…
It's not love. You see this after time. Love is flawed, sure. But not that much.
You tell Eames about her one day, because he asks you about your scars when you're lying together one early morning. You tell him, and he gives you a look of sympathy, tells you he's so sorry, Arthur, and holds you close. He can't stop whispering things like oh my god I can't believe she did that to you and does Cobb know and jesus how and why?
You just stare into space. It's hard to think, because your mind is telling you lies. It's telling you none of this is real, and that Mal never loved you as much as she loved Dom. What she showed you wasn't love. What Eames shows you is love?
Is it?
You'll never understand, Arthur. She tells you. Notre amour n'a jamais existé.
Voila, as they say.
Just to let you know, I don't do a lot of french. You can probably tell.
Ne me mens pas, Mal - Do not lie to me, Mal.
Permettez-moi de vous montrer - Let me show you.
Vous n'aurez toujour revez plus jamais á douter den moi á nouveau - You'll never doubt me again. (This is meant in a reassurring and slightly demanding way, rather than just a completely mind-fucked way)
Je suis désolé, Arthur - I'm sorry, Arthur.
Nous sommes toujours réver, Arthur. Nous sommes dans un réve - We're still dreaming, Arthur. We're in a dream.
Non, Mal. Nous ne révez pas. - No, Mal. We are not dreaming.
Cela est d'autant vrai. Il s'agit de votre vie - This is real. This is your life.
Notre amour n'a jamais existé... Work this one out yourselves ;)