Chapter Text
Mal walks blindly, her husband’s hand held over her eyes as he gently leads her across the hardwood floors of their home. She already has a good idea of what her surprise is, but she humors her husband anyway, stepping with sure feet as she trusts him to guide her around any stray toys lying in the hallway.
“Watch your step here,” Dom murmurs when her foot bumps into a small lip, just before the surface under her feet changes from hardwood to cool tile — they’ve reached the kitchen now, where the savory scent of meat and spices permeates the air.
Dom removes his hand from her eyes and steps away. “Okay, love, you can open your eyes.”
Mal blinks her eyes open and the first thing she sees is her husband’s face. His expression is eager but with just a touch of anxiousness as he waits to see her reaction. Mal smiles reassuringly at him before she moves her gaze to the scene he has set. Dom had forbidden her from entering the kitchen all afternoon, gently shooing her away whenever she came too close. Mal had rolled her eyes, but seeing the finished result now makes the earlier inconvenience completely worth it.
Their kitchen has been transformed — white string lights criss-cross artfully across the ceiling, illuminating the space with a soft glow that alters and softens the ambiance of the room compared to the harsh overhead light that normally lights the kitchen. Their dining table sits in the middle of the floor, pulled away from its normal position against the wall, its scuffs and stains hidden by a creamy white tablecloth. The table is laid with two artfully plated portions of a chicken dish smothered in a rich sauce, and a small candle sits in the middle, its flickering glow reflected in the glasses of red wine next to each plate. On the wall hangs a new painting, one that Mal recognizes instantly, of a small child in a garden of sunflowers — she had previously admired this painting in a restaurant while on her honeymoon with Dom in the French countryside, and she realizes that Dom must be trying to recreate the experience for her now.
It’s not the same — the new decorations and lighting still can’t hide the fact of the kitchen where Mal cooks eggs every morning — but this version was created by her husband, for her, and that makes it perfect in her eyes.
“Madame, would you like to take a seat?” Dom says, pulling out one of the chairs for her.
“Why, thank you,” Mal says, sitting down in the proffered chair.
Dom takes his seat as well and reaches across the table for her hand. “Happy anniversary. Je t’aime, ma chérie.”
Tonight is their first wedding anniversary since they welcomed Philippe into the world. With the new addition to their family, tonight is a simple affair — a quiet dinner at home, rather than their normal night in a hotel suite — but Mal would not have it any other way.
“And I love you too,” she says in return, smiling helplessly, her heart full of love for this man and this life they have made. Dom squeezes her hand.
Mal’s stomach rumbles then, reminding them that it is well past time to eat given that they waited to have their anniversary dinner until after Philippe was put to bed. Dom’s eyes widen and he gestures for her to start eating.
“You mentioned last month that of all the dishes from France, you miss coq au vin the most, so I decided to try my hand at it again,” Dom says.
This is not the first time Dom has cooked French cuisine, and if Mal is being honest, his ability to do so is mediocre at best, with his previous attempt at this dish falling short of even that. However, he always looks so boyishly eager to please every time that Mal has never had the heart to tell him this. Today especially, with the effort Dom has put in to make this evening special, Mal will eat every bite with genuine appreciation even if the food is blander than an unsalted cracker.
Mal cuts a small piece of chicken and takes a bite. Her eyes widen as the complex flavors flood her taste buds; the chicken is perfectly tender and saturated with the wine sauce. She hasn’t had coq au vin this well-made since the last time she was back in Paris.
“This is delicious,” she says, trying to disguise her surprise. She takes a sip of her wine, marveling when it pairs perfectly. “The flavors seem different this time, did you try a new recipe?”
“No, I used the same recipe I found in your mother’s old cookbook,” Dom says as he cuts his own bite. He contemplates briefly as he chews. “I might have used more garlic this time.”
Mal is skeptical — a little added garlic does not transform a dish from disappointing to delicious, but she decides not to question her husband’s miraculously improved ability, not when she is benefiting from it with this wonderful meal.
“Does it taste different in a good way?” Dom asks.
“Oh yes, this is perfect,” Mal assures him. “In fact, it tastes just like home,” she adds wistfully.
“I’m glad. I know you miss Paris,” Dom says. “I was thinking, actually — we’re long overdue for a visit to France. And your mother still hasn’t met Philippe.”
“Of course I would love to go,” Mal says. “Will we be able to, though? You said last week that it is a busy time at work for you.”
Dom looks suddenly shifty again, and Mal wonders if there is another surprise in store. “Well, I was going to bring this up later, but now seems like as good a time as any,” he begins hesitantly. “I received an offer for the Lorentz firm, and I think I want to take it.”
“That’s wonderful!” Mal exclaims. “I know you’ve always admired their work.” The Lorentz firm, with their physics-defying experimental designs created through careful choices of materials and unique applications of cutting-edge engineering technology, is a perfect environment for her husband’s mind.
“They’re geniuses over there. The work they do is incredible,” Dom says. “But it will be a significant pay cut, compared to the university.”
“We’ll make it work,” Mal says firmly. “Your dream is worth it.”
Dom looks relieved. “Thank you, love.” He leans across the table to peck her on the lips.
“When will you start?” Mal asks.
“Not for a couple months,” Dom says. He grins at her. “What do you say, how about a family vacation in the meantime?”
---
It’s a sunny day, unseasonably warm for the time of year, and Mal can’t help but feel like she’s in one of the paintings she so admires, walking with her husband and her son in his stroller through the village where her mother lives in the French countryside outside Paris.
“It’s a bit early for tulips, isn’t it?” Mal comments as they walk up the path to her mother’s country house, pausing to admire the bright purple and red flowers.
“You would know better than me,” Dom says with a smile, pushing Philippe’s stroller closer to the flowers when the toddler makes grabby hands at the colorful blooms.
Mal shrugs. “Must be the lovely weather.”
Mal’s mother still resides in the same house where Mal grew up, a cozy two-story residence with brightly colored shutters. While it’s been many years since she’s lived under this roof, every time she comes back it still feels like home. She approaches the front door with her husband and son and knocks. The door swings open and Marie emerges with a smile on her face upon seeing her daughter.
“Mallorie!” Marie greets her with a tight embrace. She releases Mal to regard her husband standing next to her. “Dominick,” she says, giving him two perfunctory kisses on each cheek. “And, ah, this must be little Philippe,” she exclaims, her smile brightening as she coos down at the stroller.
“It is good to see you, maman,” Mal says. “You look lovely as ever.”
Marie places her hands on either side of Mal’s face. “And you look far too thin! What is your husband feeding you? Come in, come in, we will have lunch soon,” she says, ushering them in. “Food should be ready in half an hour, if you two and the little one want to freshen up after your travels,” she says.
“Marie, can I help you with anything?” Dom asks, still trying to win her over after all these years. Mal thinks it’s a bit of a lost cause, but so long as they are civil with each other, she can live with that.
Marie evaluates him for a moment, clearly deciding whether or not she trusts him in her beloved kitchen. “You can chop some carrots,” she says finally, as if bestowing upon him a great favor.
Mal shakes her head fondly at her mother and her husband. “Well, I will go and settle Philippe down for a nap while you two finish up lunch,” Mal says. She carefully lifts her son out of his stroller, settling him on her hip as she walks down the familiar hallway to her childhood bedroom.
It’s been over a decade since she last called this room her own, but every time she comes back to visit, it feels as if both everything and nothing has changed. This time, however, a new piece of furniture stands next to the bed, a baby crib that Mal’s mother must have brought in for their visit. Mal gently lays Philippe, who has already fallen asleep, down in the crib.
“Sleep well, ma puce,” she says, kissing his forehead.
Standing back up, thankful that the long walk in the stroller tired out her son, Mal takes in the rest of her childhood room.
“Bijou!” Mal exclaims in delight, smiling when she sees her old stuffed tiger perched at the end of her bed as if it has been waiting for her to visit and play with it once more. She picks it up, holding its plush shape gently between her hands. The thought crosses her mind that it is smaller than she remembers it — or maybe it is just her that is larger now. It’s strange how, after so many years, so much has changed yet so much is still the same. Bijou’s fluff, once a bright tangerine, is now a muted, almost pastel shade. Its stitched smile and glossy plastic eyes, however, are reassuringly familiar. Setting Bijou back down on the bed, Mal decides to bring it with her when they return to L.A., so that Philippe can also have his own adventures with the tiger.
The rest of the room looks much neater than it ever was in her youth, her things tidied up and put away into boxes by her mother once she moved out after graduating university. Her desk is empty of the notebooks and papers she always had scattered over it and the floor is clear of haphazardly thrown clothes, though her bookshelf is still packed full with books and trinkets.
Mal runs her fingers over the titles on the shelf, pausing to pull out a well-loved copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. The motion jostles one of the trinkets on the shelf, and Mal notices too late as it falls off the shelf and rolls under the bookshelf.
“Merde,” Mal mutters to herself as she bends down to retrieve it, hoping that whatever it is that fell is not breakable. She gropes underneath the shelf, withdrawing when her hand closes around a small metal object.
She uncurls her fingers to reveal a spinning top. “Oh,” Mal says to herself, her book forgotten as she runs her fingertips along the smooth curve where the top’s disc connects to its body. It’s another piece of her childhood, but not one that she expected to find here.
“Mal? Where are you?” Dom’s voice calls down the hallway.
“In here,” Mal calls back as she stands up. “Is lunch ready?” she asks when Dom steps into the room.
Dom rubs the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “Not yet. Your mother just kicked me out of the kitchen.”
Mal laughs. “What did you do?”
“I added the carrots to the stew too early, apparently.” Dom sighs. “So much for being helpful,” he says ruefully.
“Oh Dom, you don’t need to try so hard to impress my mother, though I appreciate that you do,” Mal says. “Maman has never approved of any of my boyfriends.”
“Love, we’ve been married for three years,” Dom says dryly.
Mal kisses his cheek. “And many more to come.”
---
The third night into their visit, Mal sits on her childhood bed, turning the comforting weight of her spinning top over in her fingers as she wonders if she might have made a mistake in coming here with Dom. Mal loves both her husband and her mother so very dearly, but right now, after having played peacemaker between the two of them for the entire evening, she is glad to have a moment to herself alone while Dom showers, her mother already having gone to bed an hour ago.
It has only been three days, and Mal is already tired — of Marie’s thinly veiled disapproval of her husband, of Dom’s increasing frustration with his failed attempts at bonding with her mother, and even Philippe has been more fussy than usual.
Tonight had been going so well, too, with Dom and Marie making polite — if stilted — conversation throughout dinner. It didn’t fall apart until the evening was almost over, when Dom made an offhand comment about his impending departure from his university post over dessert. Marie had been appalled, calling him an irresponsible father for quitting a stable job with an infant son, and Mal was unpleasantly reminded of her mother’s objections the first time she brought Dom home to meet her parents.
“C’est un rêveur, comme toi,” Marie had said, then, in worried tones. He is a dreamer, like you. You cannot keep each other grounded.
Even though she had reassured her husband otherwise, it pains her to see her husband and her mother at odds. She’s not sure what to do, torn between the desire to uncover the common ground between two people she loves and the exhausted resignation to just keeping her relationships with her husband and her mother separate. Mal distractedly spins her top on the nightstand as she frets, an old habit that still feels instinctive to her fingers.
When she was younger and conflicted over a decision — from Should I wear the red blouse or the green? to Should I take a gap year after graduation? and once, when she was home from university on spring holiday, Should I ask the American exchange student out to dinner? — she would sometimes spin her top and force herself to make a choice by the time the top fell over. It’s comforting, now, to watch the top spin, as if it — not her — is making the choice instead.
Mal watches as the top spins and spins—
—and keeps spinning, its trajectory smooth and unwobbling around its axis, a ballerina doing endless fouettés with her tutu fanning out around her. Mal starts to grow uneasy, unable to pinpoint why, but something in its motion just seems off.
“What is that?” Dom asks, peering over her shoulder. Mal startles and bumps the nightstand with her hip as she turns to face him, knocking the top over.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear you come back in,” Mal says. “My grand-mère gave this to me. I used to play with it as a girl. I thought I lost this after our last move, but I suppose it was here all along.” She picks up the spinning top to show him.
“An odd choice of a toy to give your granddaughter,” Dom comments.
Mal smiles in reminiscence. “I know. She was never that great with children,” she says, “but I loved it anyway. Whenever I was stressed about an exam, I would spin it endlessly and it drove maman mad.”
Dom laughs. “I can imagine.” He nods toward the spinning top. “Does this mean you’re stressed now?” he asks, his tone light, though Mal senses that the inquiry is real. “I’m sorry about dinner tonight. I shouldn’t have mentioned that I was leaving the university.”
“No, you did nothing wrong,” Mal insists, hastening to reassure her husband. “Maman just… she worries. She’s always chosen the practical option, the safe option, so she doesn’t understand when we choose differently.” She sighs, giving Dom a wan glance. “I’m sorry. I know this is not the romantic trip through France that you envisioned.”
“Don’t be sorry, love. It’s been a wonderful trip— I’m being honest,” Dom says, when Mal gives him a skeptical look. “I love seeing where you grew up. And I understand where your mother is coming from. She worries because she loves you.” He nudges her. “We have that in common, at least.”
Mal gives him a small smile. “I know.”
Dom turns down the covers on his side of the bed, slipping under the sheets. Mal follows suit, pulling the chain on the lamp next to the bed to turn off the lights. In the dark, with Dom facing away from her, she allows herself to examine the spinning top again. It looks the same, feels the same as she remembers, yet when it was spinning, it was almost as if it didn’t want to stop once she had set it into motion. She sets the top back down on the nightstand, half-expecting it to start spinning on its own again as soon as she lets go.
Nothing happens, however, and Mal rolls around to face her husband before falling into an uneasy sleep.