you're too young & eager to love

Inception bits! Because writing is a bitch after a lazy day on the couch.

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“It’s never just a dream, is it?” The honeyed melodies of her voice, near him again. “Dom?” Like a strike against his face. Mal brushed her fingers against the solid square of his jaw, swept her hand up and almost touched his hair. She was a fleeting, ethereal thing. Bound to him by guilt but uncontrollable. (Not real. A projection of his, a creation, kept secret and confined. But real enough, so much more than the bones in her coffin, the grave he could not legally visit. Mal knew what her husband knew; Ariadne was a skilled girl, but she saw the architect-in-training as a threat, an enemy. Ariadne who represented forgiveness, and forgiveness was liberty.)

“I thought you might be missing me.”

-

He was sleeping again.

Mal had her fingers over his eyes, and she smelled like the Chanel perfume his father had bought her for Christmas before the kids were born. A classic, clean smell. Her skin was soft against his eyelids, her slender form pressed against his back, the wisp of her dress brushing his legs from behind. Real but not real.

“You know where to find me,” she murmured, affectionate, close to his ear yet somehow faint, muzzled by sounds nearby. A gasp that was almost painful, the shred of expensive fabric, laughter like a gun in the night. When she slid her fingers away, there were pictures all along the walls – her in little dresses as a girl sitting near her mother, pictures of her walking along a river, on a bench, with friends when she was in college. Pictures of her with men, with women. Of her laughing, smiling. Pictures of her in black and white where her eyes are haunting, her lips painted pale grey.

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