Author's Notes:
RELATIONSHIP: Dom Cobb/Mal Cobb
RATING: Mature
WARNINGS: Pseudo-incest, censored sexual situations
NOTES: The title was taken from an English translation of the lyrics of Édith Piaf's "Non, je ne regrette rien."
To read this story's missing scenes with sexual content, check the uncensored version on Archive of Our Own (AO3 username: lemonpika).
My cousin and I decided to write about the same fandom, characters, and premise and see how differently our stories would turn out. Please consider checking out her version (AO3 username: whatananimal). She's one of my most frequent collaborators and one of my favorite human beings in the world.
Chapter 1: Castles constructed by the sea
In the distance, lightning fractured the violet evening sky in half. There were three beats of silence — if one didn't count the French woman warbling on the radio by the stove — before the rumble of thunder followed.
In the kitchen, Mal was slicing the kernels off a corncob for a supper side dish. The grains were lightly buttered, with delicate dashes of garlic and pepper, just the way her husband liked them.
There was a creaking as the front door opened. Dom was back.
Glossy lips curving into a smile, Mal stuck her hands beneath the running faucet then wiped them dry on her frilly apron. She went to greet her husband as he was stamping his steel-toed boots on the doormat. "Welcome home, sweetheart."
Her fingers — with nails freshly painted crimson — rested on his shoulders as she kissed his mouth. She felt the dampness of his clothes from the rain outside. Tutting, she peeled off his coat and hung it on a hook by the door.
"You poor thing," she murmured. "If I'd known the weather would take a turn for the worse, I would've reminded you to bring an umbrella to work."
"Don't fret. It only started drizzling when I was on my way home."
"Yes, the storm won't be hitting us just yet." Mal patted his cheek with her palm before returning to the chopping board to pick up her chef's knife.
Dom, who'd followed her into the kitchen, folded his arms over his chest. "So how was she today?"
"Your daughter, you mean? She's barely left her room. But she'll show her face once she knows her father's home, as she always does."
"I'll call her to the dining table."
"No, let me. Go change out of those wet clothes and wash up for supper."
Dom nodded then left the kitchen.
Knife still in hand, Mal walked down the hallway toward her daughter's bedroom. She halted by the door. Inside, Phillipa was speaking, seemingly to herself. Mal pressed her ear against the wood to listen.
But her daughter's words were difficult to discern.
Mal straightened up. With her free hand, she rapped her knuckles once against the door before opening it and stepping inside the room.
Phillipa was sitting on the bed and holding a framed picture. In the photograph, two fair-haired children were building a sandcastle on the beach. They were beaming as brightly as the sun behind them.
"Five minutes till the food's served," Mal informed her daughter.
"I'm not hungry."
"Your father's just arrived. You should show some respect." Mal brandished the knife for emphasis. "Have supper with us like a proper young lady."
Without further complaint, Phillipa placed the frame on her nightstand and rose from the bed.
Over supper, Dom indulged his daughter with stories about his work, which involved the restoration of buildings. He devoted most of his hours to the structures by the cliffs, which had grown dilapidated from disuse.
Phillipa's eyes were glazed as she toyed with her grilled fish. "I'll bet the view is breathtaking from there. I wish I could accompany you one of these days. I'd love to watch you in your element."
"It's not safe out there, honey," Mal said, heaping several more spoonfuls of corn onto her husband's plate.
"I'll be with Daddy so I'll be safe," Phillipa assured her.
"You're old enough to know your father can't protect you from everything. Out there, bits of ancient architecture are always breaking off and toppling into the sea like icebergs. You don't want to fall along with them, do you? In here, you have your sketchbook, your canvas, and your pottery wheel. You can create any spectacle you want from the comfort of our home."
"But buildings are what interest me most!"
"Then entertain yourself by tracing them from the photos your father brings home with him."
Scowling, Phillipa smacked down her fork. Her meal wasn't even halfway eaten. "Why is it okay for Daddy to do whatever he wants outside, but not for me? This double standard is unfair."
"No, it isn't. Your father's been designing the landscape for decades upon decades. He's an expert at what he does. You and I should simply stay home and support him however we can."
"But Daddy told me you used to go out all the time! He said the two of you worked together, side by side, building the metropolis from scratch with your own hands. You might not be interested in designing things anymore, but I am. I can take your place and be Daddy's partner at work."
"Phillipa Cobb, you know why we have to stay home and why I have to keep you as close to me as possible. If I'd been watching over your brother that day like I was supposed to, he'd be here with us tonight. He'd be sitting at this table and enjoying this sea bass and broccoli and corn that I prepared with love. But instead —" Mal was too choked up by this point to continue. Her green eyes were misty with emotion.
Sighing deeply, Dom reached for his wife's hand over the table. He grasped it as tightly as he could. "It's not your fault, sweetheart. If you want to blame someone for everything that's happened, blame me. I failed you. I failed my family."
Watching the pained expression on her father's face was more than Phillipa could bear. The guilt was like glass piercing her heart. She hurriedly said whatever she could to reverse his frown. "I'm sorry, Mommy. I was being too stubborn. I didn't mean to remind you about that wretched day."
Phillipa took her mother's other hand and squeezed it. She then reached for her father's free hand so that they could all hold each other and comfort one another as a good family should.
Just then, however, Mal broke the chain of linked fingers to dab at her welling eyes with a table napkin.
After supper, in the primary bedroom, Dom was lying on the king-sized mattress with his hands clasped behind his head. He was staring at the cracks on the ceiling.
He glanced at his wife as she exited the bathroom. She'd changed from her red gingham dress to a black silk chemise.
"Your daughter is getting more disobedient with every day that passes," Mal said. "She's becoming more like you, no?"
"More like me? How can you say that when I've only ever done what you wanted me to do?"
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Mal began stroking Dom's hair. She tucked a dark blond tuft behind his ear. "More like the way you used to be before you came to your senses and returned to me, then."
"You know why she's been acting out. Come on, Mal. As much as it benefits you to treat her like a child, she's in her twenties. You can't keep her locked up here with us forever."
"Locked up? What are you talking about? There are no deadbolts or padlocks on any of the doors of our home. If she truly wishes to leave, she only needs to walk out. Nobody is stopping her."
Dom's voice was grave. "She knows the consequences. She understands that, the moment she leaves this house, she's out of here for good. You're not letting her back inside again."
"Isn't that the way it has to be? Once a baby bird abandons its nest, it must learn how to fly on its own."
Dom only sighed in response. His eyes turned from her face toward the fissures on the ceiling.
Mal leaned toward him and started to massage his shoulders. "Don't go scrunching up your pretty face in such a petulant manner. A man's home is his castle, don't you know? This is the one place where you can always put your worries to rest. Instead, your muscles are all in knots. What's gotten you so wound-up, hmm?"
Dom didn't reply. His expression stayed stony.
Mal's hands glided downward from his shoulders. She trailed her fingertips over his bare chest then lightly palmed him over his boxers. "I know exactly how to help you loosen up. I can see your eyes begging for this even when your mouth remains a hard line. I wouldn't be much of a housewife if I couldn't identify when you need me to commence my conjugal duties for the night, would I?" With this, she mounted his lap. "Just let me take care of you, sweetheart. Let me help you forget all your troubles."
With slow and sensuous motions, Mal began rocking back and forth over his lap. She waited until she sensed his readiness before hiking up the hem of her nightgown.
(There is a deleted scene here.)
Unbeknownst to them both, the door to their bedroom had cracked open midway through their conversation. A single brown eye stared intently — unblinkingly — at the fornicating figures on the bed.
Phillipa's body, pressed against the cool surface of the door, was growing warmer the longer she watched.
Back in her own bedroom, Phillipa was picturing her father in the throes of ecstasy.
(There is a deleted scene here.)
A clap of thunder outside her window jerked Phillipa from this lustful reverie.
She snatched her brother's framed photograph from the nightstand. She started to confide in him, as she'd been doing more and more often lately. "What's wrong with me, James? I shouldn't be feeling this way about Daddy, should I? I may not know anything about the workings of the outside world, but I at least know that much. It was one of the first lessons Mommy taught me — that only a husband and a wife can do those kinds of things together."
James looked just like a cherub in this photo. Mommy certainly talked about him as if he was a perfect little angel, with his voice ringing like church bells whenever he spoke and with his temperament brightening rooms wherever he went.
If James was looking down at his sister from heaven, what would he be thinking at this moment? Would he be disappointed? Disgusted, even?
Phillipa placed the frame facedown over her chest. Since she wasn't fortunate enough to inherit her mother's womanly curves, the frame lay as flat as could be.
"Dominick. Dominick James Cobb." She rolled her father's full name experimentally on her tongue. She tried to imagine what it would be like to meet him in another context, one wherein blood and history didn't simultaneously bind them together and keep them apart in the ways they did.
There were men in the novels she read and in the movies she watched. If she closed her eyes, she could picture one of them — a clean-cut, dark-haired stranger from a faraway realm leading her up the stairs or kissing her in full view of a crowded room.
However, no matter how much she tried, she couldn't make any of the men from her fantasies appear as wondrous as her father was to her. After all, when it came down to it, none of those men were real. They were only figments of her imagination.
Phillipa lifted the frame so that she could rant and rave at her brother again. "If only you were here, James! You'd shake me out of this funk and tell me I was being a fool! Then you'd turn my mind away from my wicked thoughts to more positive and productive endeavors. You and I, we could sneak out together in the middle of the night and venture beyond the four walls of this house for the first time. We could check out the structures by the cliffs and — when parts of the glacial architecture would disintegrate like Mommy and Daddy claim they do — we could save each other from falling toward the waves below. Once we've had our fill of admiring the sea, we could explore the vast cityscape our parents created when they first settled here. Maybe we could even travel beyond their domain — go as far as we possibly could before we would have to come home again." She paused as she envisioned this alternate timeline. Her voice was softer when she spoke again. "Alone, I'm afraid of wandering too far and of getting lost forever. But together we would've been fearless. We would've been ready to take on any threat this world could throw our way, consequences be damned. I'm sure of it. I feel it whenever I look into your eyes."
Her brother's eyes were full of laughter and light, while his hair was like spun gold. Phillipa was blond once too, but through the years her hair had dimmed to brown. With her dark hair and even darker eyes, she couldn't look more different from James based on this photo. It was hard to believe they both came from the same womb.
She strained to remember any details about her brother from their childhood, but she couldn't. She never could. He was gone far too soon.
Mommy said the trauma of losing James so tragically young made Phillipa's brain block out all the memories associated with that time. Daddy had his special ways of helping to drive away the darkness whenever it came back to invade his daughter's mind and to infect her every thought.
Forgetting the worst of her past was for her own good, Phillipa's parents told her. A mind wasn't made to bear so much bitterness and despair. Otherwise, it would break.