Disclaimer: Inception does not belong to me. Copyright infringement is not intended.
A/N: Dieu merci is thank God. Philippa means lover of horses.
Warning: I have mild dyslexia and dyscalculia. There may be small grammatical errors and large mathematical ones.
Summary: Before she jumped, Mal noticed things that just weren't right. Prequel to Leap of Faith.
Let Him Go
Mal could never stand yelling.
Every time someone started to yell at her, she'd cry; every time someone started to yell at her, they were right. Right about her actions, if not her motivations. Never had people quite gotten how she thought, but Dom Cobb came close. This time he was wrong.
But that didn't stop her from crying.
They gestured wildly, screaming at each other. If this were real Philippa would have come down to watch the show; she loved a good argument. Dom never noticed that part, but Mallorie knew that it was the same as any debate to Philippa, the Irish from her father's side of the family. Parents arguing made them real. It highlighted them at their worst, but a child would only see the words and see a side that fit them best. Philippa was a Daddy's Girl; she'd usually pick Dom's side in an argument. But Philippa wasn't here.
And Mal was crying more than yelling.
The step didn't squeak right, Mal mused. She knew that sound exactly from late night ice cream runs with Philippa and James, both from when she was pregnant with them and when they were sick. Ice cream was a necessity in the middle of the night when you were sick. The morning was for soup.
There was no art on the fridge now; James hadn't been drawing. James, sweet thing that he was, loved his crayons. He never stopped drawing over anything, and for a child he was fairly good. If her and Dom's fights (most quiet) had been upsetting him, he would have put it to paper. Except for when Dom was looking at them, the children were practically silent drones. They didn't have to pretend, with her.
They didn't have a function, without Dom.
She got her ice cream.
He gently laid her hand flat, taking the knife. Really, Dom, suicide? I haven't convinced you to come back with me yet. She didn't comment, however.
Raising an eyebrow, she showed him the tomatoes and began to cut them up. This time he blushed.
Ah, the silent conversations of the married…
"Arthur hasn't been over in a while," Mal commented almost casually, wiping around James' mouth while he tried to turn away. She sighed, giving up. She'd get it off in the bath after dinner.
"Yeah, that is strange," Dom frowned. "Maybe we should call. Philippa, both hands when you lift the bowl."
"Sorry Daddy."
"Yes, invite him for dinner, Dom."
Let's see how many ways you create Arthur wrong.
The "girlfriend", the reason Arthur hadn't been over in a while, had orange-red hair. Arthur hated orange-red hair; that's what his mother had looked like. He associated bad memories with it, and would never date someone he'd end up projecting his issues on. She and Arthur had talked about this, to her many years ago. She had eidetic memory, however, so it was as clear as always.
Just because you didn't listen to a memory didn't mean it wasn't in there. That's what Limbo had been like; it had clouded her memory so that she thought it was real for a while. About twenty years, in fact, before… well, she found her totem, and spun it on the table by chance. And it didn't stop spinning. After two hours.
Not wanting to be plagued every day of her life with the lack of reality, she'd put it away in a safe in her childhood dollhouse, a dollhouse that was now Philippa's. (The real Philippa's.) Still, every night before bed her mind would go to that safe, the top that sat innocently idle. Dom may have spun her totem, but all that did was make her want to stop playing her little game and leave right the fuck now.
She knew this wasn't real.
She knew this was California, but it hadn't rained at all. The thermostat was at a constant 73º, and there were only fluffy white clouds, the sky perfect. She couldn't tell if the constellations at night were correct – Mal likes the stories that go with them, not how the stars are grouped – but there are never any crickets out. No fucking crickets! She can't sleep without the damn crickets! She's taking fucking NyQuil and a shot of Jack just to get to sleep. Dieu merci for this not being real or she might become an addict. She'd had a friend who'd used alcohol as a sleep aid once; that she knew, Greg was in detox for the forth or fifth time. Even in a dream she didn't want to use alcohol to sleep, but it was better than going to some psychiatrist to get – actually….
"Mal? Honey?"
There was an idea niggling at the back of her mind, but she tucked it away.
"Back here in the garden, Dom!"
"Philippa wants a horse for her birthday," Dom said in shock.
"I'm not surprised; she practically named herself. I'll paint horses on her walls."
"She wants a horse."
"Ask her when she's sixteen if she wants a horse or a car," Mal said drily. "I'm betting that she'll still say horse. Dom, she's always wanted a horse. We'll buy her My Little Pony and she'll be satisfied."
Well, at least he's got Philippa's wants right.
"James, we don't draw on the walls," Dom said.
"Yes, James, this wall is blue. Let's draw on the white one," Mal smiled.
She could almost pretend this was real. At least Dom's shock was.
"Mal…" he hissed.
"What? We can paint over the white one. Finding the right shade of blue is harder."
She laughed at the expression on his face.
She'd stopped Dreamsharing and started on therapy. Dom thought she was getting "better". She'd never been better; her plans were coming into order.
I want my real children.
Dom would have to come with her.
Mal could never stand yelling.
Every time someone started to yell at her, she'd cry; every time someone started to yell at her, they were right. Right about her actions, if not her motivations. Never had people quite gotten how she thought, but Dom Cobb came close. This time he was wrong.
But that didn't stop her from crying.
They gestured wildly, screaming at each other. If this were real Philippa would have come down to watch the show; she loved a good argument. Dom never noticed that part, but Mallorie knew that it was the same as any debate to Philippa, the Irish from her father's side of the family. Parents arguing made them real. It highlighted them at their worst, but a child would only see the words and see a side that fit them best. Philippa was a Daddy's Girl; she'd usually pick Dom's side in an argument. But Philippa wasn't here.
And Mal was crying more than yelling.
He's not going to jump with me.
She has to let him go.