He doesn't believe it, even if he knows. Those are two separate feelings, two separate emotions, things he'd never thought about except for the fact that now he's faced with both of them at the same time. He watched her, watched the woman he loved and cared for jump like it was nothing.
It's his fault.
It's his fault, and he can't tell a single soul.
Dom Cobb really did kill his wife, he thinks, even if he had just tried to make her happy. Those papers aren't completely wrong. Mal, in her last ditch effort to 'wake him up,' wasn't wrong. He'd made Mal do this.
The only good thing about--well, any of this--is that he doesn't have time to think. Not really, he doesn't have time to process, either. It feels like a kick, like a splash of water on his face and then 'you have to go' and 'here's a plane ticket.'
He doesn't even get time to see his kids.
He barely sleeps on the plane--he barely sleeps anymore anyway, he can't (he doesn't want to), and when he lands in Frankfurt it seems like a blur. He's exhausted, blinking with dry eyes, brows furrowed together as he realizes all of the people look blurry, like a poor man's projections if such a thing were to exist. All but one.
Cobb immediately makes his way towards him.
"Arthur." It's quiet greeting, soft but firm, laced with so many emotions Cobb can't quite show them all so it comes across as numb, almost bland. His brow settles, if only for a moment.
"Thank you." He didn't expect Arthur to be here, not really, but he can't say he's surprised. What he is, mostly, is grateful.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2017-11-20 03:03 am (UTC)He doesn't believe it, even if he knows. Those are two separate feelings, two separate emotions, things he'd never thought about except for the fact that now he's faced with both of them at the same time. He watched her, watched the woman he loved and cared for jump like it was nothing.
It's his fault.
It's his fault, and he can't tell a single soul.
Dom Cobb really did kill his wife, he thinks, even if he had just tried to make her happy. Those papers aren't completely wrong. Mal, in her last ditch effort to 'wake him up,' wasn't wrong. He'd made Mal do this.
The only good thing about--well, any of this--is that he doesn't have time to think. Not really, he doesn't have time to process, either. It feels like a kick, like a splash of water on his face and then 'you have to go' and 'here's a plane ticket.'
He doesn't even get time to see his kids.
He barely sleeps on the plane--he barely sleeps anymore anyway, he can't (he doesn't want to), and when he lands in Frankfurt it seems like a blur. He's exhausted, blinking with dry eyes, brows furrowed together as he realizes all of the people look blurry, like a poor man's projections if such a thing were to exist. All but one.
Cobb immediately makes his way towards him.
"Arthur." It's quiet greeting, soft but firm, laced with so many emotions Cobb can't quite show them all so it comes across as numb, almost bland. His brow settles, if only for a moment.
"Thank you." He didn't expect Arthur to be here, not really, but he can't say he's surprised. What he is, mostly, is grateful.