peaceful, the world lays me down.
The End of The Celibate Life
Arthur/Eames, R, prompt: " Arthur has a son and after dating Eames for almost a year, he decides to tell the forger about his son."
thank you to bronson and anetolle for looking this over. ♥
5419 words
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The admission came a year later when they were both on a holiday in St. Tropez. Well, Eames was on a holiday and Arthur happened to be passing through the good town, working a job that, while requiring minimal effort, involved a lot of fancy footwork and long range shooting.
They were at the Hotel Byblos when Arthur told him.
Eames chipped a tooth and lost a slipper after having ducked behind the reception desk, avoiding gun fire. The men Arthur were up against looked like villains straight out of a spaghetti western and for a fleeting, wistful moment Eames lamented not having been properly briefed or dressed for the occasion. It would have been grand, he thought, to be part of an elaborate assasinasion plot dressed like Lee Van Cleef, his face greased interminably, a dark brown poncho wrapped around his neck.
Arthur had broken into his hotel room that morning, rolling through the east window after shattering it with a large clawhammer, and ordered him to Jesus put some clothes on. Eames in his disorderly haste pulled on the closest thing within reach which happened to be a pair of soft, bedroom slippers. They didn't even match.
"If we don't make it out alive," he said, fastening the complementary hotel bathrobe he'd picked up along the way - for propriety, if nothing else - if he had his way he'd have been running around the hotel in the nude so as not to impede his mobility. "I have to tell you now that I once masturbated while watching you sleep." He waited a beat and sure enough Arthur looked at him with a mixture of horror and disbelief.
"If it's any comfort, darling, I deeply regret not having told you sooner." Eames added.
Arthur squared his shoulders, silent for a long moment before firing a shot from behind the desk. "I have a son," he confided, once he'd pulled out a 22 magnum mini-revolver from his shoulder holster. He handed it to Eames.
"You have a what now?"
"A son." Arthur repeated, reloading his gun.
"I'm sorry. Is 'son' a euphemism for erection?"
Arthur shot him a look that would have made any man's testicles shrink to the size of prunes but kept Eames wildly undeterred.
"I have a son, Eames." Arthur said in his no nonsense voice, the same way people said I am getting a lobotomy next Friday. "He's turning six next weekend."
"Oh, I heard you the first time, love," Eames said, cocking his gun. "I just wanted to make sure."
There was silence for awhile and it hung in the air like a sodden heavy blanket. Eames pulled Arthur over for a sideways hug, releasing him only when he started elbowing him in the stomach.
"Well, then," Eames clapped, which was harder than it seemed when one was also wielding a revolver. "Why don't we finish up here so you can get home to your little boy, mm?"
Arthur looked at him skeptically as if he'd grown another appendage or else just confessed to watching a child dive under the wheels of a passing truck.
Eames rolled his eyes. "As always your complete lack of faith in me is comforting. I don't always have sex on the mind, you know. I'm merely quick to exploit other people's weaknesses and on occasion, clever enough to turn the most innocent remarks into subtle innuendo."
Arthur looked entirely unconvinced.
"We fire on the count of three, alright?" Eames continued, "1, 2, -"
He kissed Arthur, hard, for good luck more than anything, before leaping over the desk and firing his gun.
Three days later, they were on a plane back to America.
*
For the longest time, Eames thought of New Jersey as nothing more than diners, strip malls, and the occasional old guy in a checkered shirt, waiting to knife you in a dark alley. It bore the usual squalor of any commercial city: motels and gas stations to attract the casual passerby, high school kids huffing turpentine to make sure they never leave.
As far as he was concerned, there was nothing geographically redeeming about the place. It was, at least according to popular folklore, where people often came to die or give up on life.
When Arthur told him they were heading there for the weekend, Eames had been on the verge of declining. Then he remembered it was the same weekend Arthur said his son was turning six and that it was the first time Arthur ever invited him to anything he didn't already invite Cobb to.
Eames was pleasantly surprised, if not relieved, to find that his estimations of New Jersey missed by a wild margin. The place was, as a matter of fact, more homey than he'd care to admit, birthing a string of famous people, one of which happened to be the grandfather of mail-order business himself, Aaron Montgomery Ward.
Arthur briefed him on the hour drive to Maplewood, a town lined with charming grass lawns, old trees and rows of two story houses with wrap-around porches jovially waving American flags. It was a handsome town, not unlike a New England suburb, with a main street of square-topped red buildings, old banks, a bakery and a family-owned diner advertising something called Apple Pie Tuesdays.
"It would help," Arthur began testily, shrugging into a less expensive brown leather jacket, "to dispel any notions you might have of me and how I live my life."
"I used to think you slept hanging upside down from the ceiling," Eames confessed sheepishly. "And that what you had in place of a heart was a ticking time bomb."
"Eames," Arthur said warningly, and when Eames turned to look at him he expected to be berated for his cheek. Instead, Arthur glanced at him worryingly, furrowing his brow and digging his hands inside his pockets.
"What is it?" Eames asked, bizarrely concerned. He touched Arthur's arm but leaned away lest Arthur recoiled upon impulse.
"My mother thinks I'm a traveling salesman." Arthur said, looking more desolate than Eames had ever seen him in his life, not counting the first time Eames made a pass at him and Arthur implored that he quit while he was ahead.
"You told her you were a traveling salesman?" That didn't even make sense. Arthur lacked interpersonal skills and when something went awry his first instinct was to maim, kill, or shoot.
"No," Arthur continued, jaw tense, "She just came to the conclusion herself."
"Keen lady," Eames remarked dryly.
Arthur shot him a look, but Eames, in a fit of affection, ignored him and tousled the top of his hair. He picked up their bags where the cab driver had left them in the street before crossing the road and waving Arthur over to his side.
Arthur raised a brow but followed after him.
*
"Arthur!" declared an old woman, lifting her arms in welcome. She was not the type of person Eames imagined capable of raising a child who would later become wanted for felony in Central Asia. She was a willowy sort of woman with visible whites in her stringy brown hair, in an ankle-length flowery skirt and a necklace fashioned from what appeared to be a decoupage of macaroni and magazine cutouts.
It just didn't compute; the impression she gave off was that of a well-rounded hands-on parent.
"Mom," Arthur grinned, meeting her halfway for a hug. It was strange to see Arthur let his guard down but even stranger still to see him hug and address someone as his mother, who turned to Eames briefly, giving him a sideways look that was suspicious yet friendly at the same time.
"And this must be?"
Eames thrust out a hand. "Eames, madame," he grinned. "Call me Eames."
"Eames." she repeated, shaking his hand vigorously. "And your relationship with my son is...?"
"We're colleagues."
"Partners." Arthur replied smoothly. They shared a look.
"Eames is my partner, mom." Arthur said as if he couldn't believe it, himself; neither could Eames. "I've been seeing him for over a year now."
"Is Eames a last name or a first name?" His mother asked, brows raised in interest.
"Oh I'd tell you madame," Eames chuckled, face warm, "but then I'd have to kill you."
Arthur elbowed him in the side.
"Please," She touched him on the arm, laughing, "Call me Jane."
*
"You told her we were partners," Eames said in disbelief while Jane was off making coffee in the kitchen. He wasn't sure which was more troubling, the fact that Arthur used something as vague as partners to describe the nature of their relationship or that Arthur had just casually introduced him to his mother in rural New Jersey.
"I can't lie to her." Arthur replied stiffly. "She's my mother."
"Yet you let her persist in the delusion that you travel from state to state, selling Tupperwares or school supplies or whatever it is you have in that imaginary brochure of yours." Eames picked up a framed photograph by the mantelpiece - this one featuring Arthur in his late teens ridden with acne - and put it back down after a long, awkward silence.
"I only lie about the little things. The big things -" Arthur made a vague gesture with his hand.
"Are we a big thing then?" Eames pressed.
Arthur's lips curled and he shrugged his shoulders. Eames waited for a long time but he didn't elaborate any further. Frowning, he deposited himself on a stuffed armchair, slouching miserably in his seat and not taking his eyes off Arthur. They watched each other for awhile, completely still, and Jane chose that precise moment to walk into the room with a tray of moist cookies and a warm pot of coffee.
"I baked them myself," she beamed proudly, taking out rubber lace coasters and setting them down on the coffee table.
There was a rustle at the door and the three of them turned their heads simultaneously. A little boy was spilling in through the front door, tracking mud all over the carpet and wearing a baseball jersey that was three times too big.
"David!" Jane cheered, greeting him by the door. Arthur stood too, shooting sharply from his seat and earnest hugs were exchanged by the doorway, leaving Eames perplexed and out of his element.
For the most part, Eames watched them silently, cradling his chin in his hand. He broke off a sugar cookie and dunked it in his coffee before wiping the pads of his fingers on a paper napkin. He caught Arthur's eye just as Arthur was lowering David to the ground and smiled, thinly, wondering if it counted as a minor betrayal to call Cobb for parenting advice.
*
David stared at him without blinking, munching on a sugar cookie.
It was unnerving, really, how tiny children were in comparison to everything else. David had floppy dark brown hair and looked so much like Arthur that Eames was almost convinced for a moment Arthur had himself cloned in a fit of egocentricity, but then David walked up to him, cocking his head to the side, curiously peering up at him with dark, beady eyes that Eames had a hard time believing he was Arthur's genetic duplicate. Clone Arthur probably would've already kicked him in the foot.
"Are you my dad's new boyfriend?" David asked.
"What?"
"Are you," David repeated slowly as if he were speaking to a foreigner or someone with a mental handicap, "my dad's new boyfriend?"
"Oh, pet, your father and I -" Eames floundered at the eager expression in David's face before shifting uncomfortably in his seat and brushing cookie crumbs from his lap.
"Why, yes, yes of course. I am your dad's new boyfriend." It was a strange thing to be telling a six year old whose concept of homosexuality probably resembled jovial brotherly attachment consisting of nothing more than one-armed hugs and hair-ruffling and the occasional pat on the ass.
"What's your name?" David asked, climbing up on the sofa.
"I'm Eames."
"I'm David." He pointed proudly at himself. "I'm turning six tomorrow. You're invited to my birthday party, Mr. Eames. We're gonna have cake and ice cream and my whole class is gonna be invited, including Miss Beaker my art teacher."
"Oh, really?" Eames laughed. "That sounds lovely, doesn't it? Tell me, David, what do you want for your birthday?"
"A car," David shrugged. Eames raised his brows skeptically. "And a dog. But dad says I can't have one because I'll get allckergies." He huffed, crossing his arms and furrowing his brows the way Arthur sometimes did whenever he missed a moving target and had to reload his gun just to shoot the damn bugger.
"Are you a salesman, Mr. Eames?" David asked.
Eames leaned back in his seat, wondering whether or not he should lie about this one. "I suppose, you could say that." he said finally, twisting his lips. He patted David on the head and David grinned and bounded out of the living room, into the general direction of the kitchen.
Arthur walked in a second later, wearing a canvas I ♥ Jersey apron. He looked morose as he padded towards the sitting area.
"Hello," Eames greeted cheerfully. "I like your apron."
Arthur ignored him. "Dinner will be ready in forty minutes," he said as he sank down next to Eames. Eames stretched, on the pretense of yawning, before draping an arm around Arthur's back and cupping his shoulder. Arthur shook his head in amusement.
"Why didn't you tell me about him sooner?" Eames asked curiously, fingering the fine feathers of Arthur's hair now removed from its usual gelled parting. "Does Cobb know?" He touched the back of Arthur's ear, which was soft like other secret parts of him.
Arthur leaned away. "Yeah," he said after a long pause, glaring at Eames without any real heat after Eames twisted a finger into his hair. "He sends David presents every now and then."
"Do your children go on play dates together?" Eames asked, unable to help that old kick of jealousy from spiking up in his chest. He wondered too if Cobb knew about David's mother, what kind of woman she was and why she'd decided to leave David with Arthur's mother.
Arthur frowned. "You know it isn't like that."
"All right," Eames conceded. He clicked his tongue. "I realize now that there are a number of things I don't know about you."
"I could say the same for you." Arthur said, wrenching himself free of the apron before tossing it in a dispirited heap at the coffee table. Eames watched as it spilled over the edge and landed on the floor.
"I suppose we'll have to work on that then," he said after a moment. "What do you think?"
Arthur shrugged but there was a tiny smile playing in the corner of his lips. "I suppose we do."
*
Dinner was lovely - pot roast and potatoes and vanilla ice cream for dessert. Eames felt bloated by the end of it and offered to help tidy up, if only to get the feeling back in his legs and jostle the contents in his stomach, but Jane insisted she had it covered and shooed him out of her kitchen.
He wandered out to the front porch where he sat smoking for a time, watching a sullen moon peek behind a thick grove of trees. This is the life, he thought blissfully, tamping his cigarette against an empty beer can he decided to use as an ashtray.
The air was fresh and smelled clean and behind him stood the same house Arthur had grown up in, upon whose walls his fitful growth had been recorded. There was some romance to that, he thought, and wondered if Arthur made it a point to bring home the people he slept with with frequent regularity.
Up until this point, Eames had been under the impression that Arthur tolerated his presence more than sought it. They'd never been outwardly vocal about their relationship and the only time Arthur ever said anything remotely affirmative to him was when he was five seconds away from orgasm. Other than that, they kept their exchanges terse and limited to five minute lip-to-lip touching and, if Arthur were feeling charitable, a blowjob in the bathroom.
Eames went back inside after a good solid hour of brooding during which he'd managed to simultaneously depress and exhaust himself with thoughts of his own mortality. He said goodnight to Jane who was watching soap operas in the living room before climbing up the stairs and padding quietly into the guest room where he found Arthur reading David a bedtime story.
Arthur looked up at him before turning a page and Eames leaned against the doorway, watching as David nodded off and curled up against Arthur's side. They had the same soft, brown hair, the same long thick eyelashes.
When he was finished, Arthur set the book aside and carefully scooped David into his arms. He left to tuck him into bed, returning to the guest room when Eames was just about to unbuckle his belt.
"Come to watch me strip, have you?" Eames teased, folding his trousers over the back of a stuffed armchair. Arthur rolled his eyes and locked the door behind him, dressing down to his undershirt and boxers.
Eames slid next to him in bed, narrowly avoiding elbowing Arthur in the face as he eased under the covers. "I cannot believe your mother is permitting us to stay in the same room." he said with a shake of his head, "I thought you said she was Catholic?"
"For a time," Arthur said vaguely.
"Good lord, this bed is tiny," complained Eames, rolling onto his side so that he faced Arthur's back. He decided to chance it and curve his body against the arc of Arthur's spine, resting his chin on top of Arthur's head. Position secured, he draped an arm around Arthur's waist, waiting a beat for the customary elbow in the ribs response. Instead, he heard Arthur sigh which was a far more alarming sound than it should have been.
"You're being amiable today," Eames observed, tracing circles around the skin of Arthur's bellybutton.
Arthur lifted his head, throwing him a sidelong look. "And you're complaining?"
"No," Eames laughed, pushing their legs together under the covers, "Not at all. I just find it pleasantly surprising, that's all. I've never seen this side of you. It's absolutely riveting."
He nosed the back of Arthur's neck, closing his eyes against Arthur's soft shudders.
"You have no idea what I'm like," Arthur snorted quietly. "All of your feelings for me are coming from down there." There was a pause before he pushed back against Eames, canting his hips enough times to get Eames thrusting forward against him lazily.
"Now that's just untrue," Eames protested, wiggling a hand underneath Arthur's shirt and tweaking a nipple between thumb and forefinger. "Completely, utterly untrue." He pushed Arthur's hair aside with his nose before planting a noisy kiss behind his ear, and Arthur shuddered again, violently this time, tipping his head back to give him better access.
"I like your way of dressing," Eames continued, taking a moment to rub his palm up and down Arthur's stomach; Arthur's skin was warm under his hand, the tiny hairs standing on end under the pads of his fingers. "I like how," he whispered slowly, "when I've got my cock inside you, you squeal like a whore."
"Fuck." Arthur moaned. Eames grinned against his neck, noting the slight hitch in Arthur's breath, but he was barely able to relish it as Arthur rolled him onto his back and sat on his hips, rutting against him enthusiastically the bed started to move a few inches.
"Wait, no. We shouldn't be doing this." Arthur stopped, dragging their hips together in agonizingly slow pulls.
"Please tell me this is not an issue of morality. Please." Eames begged.
"My son," snorted Arthur, staring down at him with contempt, "Is sleeping in the next room. And this house has very thin walls."
Eames opened his mouth to argue but Arthur had already slipped out of bed to check on the door, which was odd at first, Eames thought, raising his eyebrows even after Arthur started digging through the leather duffel bag at the foot of the bed. Arthur pulled out a tube of lubricant moments later which he held between his teeth as he rifled through the contents of his bag. Finally, he produced a square inch of plastic.
"You came prepared, I see," Eames said, deeply impressed, leaning up on his elbows.
"Not another word." Arthur warned, tossing him the tube.
Eames caught it, grinning, and nodded in promise.
*
Trying to stay quiet proved extremely difficult when the bed was rickety with old age and every downward cant of Arthur's hips sent Eames deeper into him. And Arthur was right about the walls - they were unforgivably thin, the bed frame rattling against the cheap plaster each time Eames so much as shifted.
Eames watched as Arthur closed his eyes, tight, clenching his jaw with effort. He reached out to ghost his fingers across the sweat painting Arthur's sternum, running the pad of his finger down Arthur's stomach to curl around his cock.
Arthur moaned, shuddering, parting his mouth ever so slightly as he sucked in a shaky breath. Eames brushed a thumb over the head and tugged on his cock in slow and steady strokes. Arthur's thighs clenched tightly around his hips as he leaned all the way down, clamping his mouth over Eames' and swirling his tongue in Eames' mouth in hot, broad strokes.
They rocked against each other, chests heaving, the mattress squeaking in protest each time Arthur's rhythm sped up. Arthur kept his eyes open the whole time, a tiny smirk in the corner of his lips as he rode Eames, tight and hot and throbbing around him. The sweet rush of orgasm burned, slow and steady, until it rose and crested and Eames' fingers curled hard against Arthur's waist as Arthur jutted his hips, panting, pulling him in deeper and deeper into the fold of his body.
The room reeked of sweat and sex when it was over. Arthur left the window partially open to let the smell out, leaning out to breathe the night air, and Eames took a moment to appreciate the lean cut of his stomach and the shape of his long, wiry legs. Arthur slid back under the covers and threw an arm over his eyes. His cheeks were flushed. Eames rubbed the pad of his thumb against Arthur's stomach and Arthur jerked forward and grunted in protest.
"Don't," he said.
"I forget sometimes that you're ticklish."
Arthur sniffed, laughing softly in the dark.
They slept head to foot, with Eames pillowing his head on his arm and touching Arthur's ankle gingerly. "This is absolute genius," he said, tracing the curve of Arthur's foot with his thumb. "With the head to foot alignment there is no way for our parts to lock in."
"I think that should be the least of our problems." Arthur said and delivered a half-hearted kick Eames' way which Eames had successfully avoided.
"I suppose this is your idea of pillow talk, then." Eames said huffily, dropping his head on the mattress with a sigh. Arthur leaned up on his elbows, brow raised in amusement and pressed his foot to Eames' chest.
"Even in my sleep you're trying to kill me," Eames lamented, cradling Arthur's foot against his chest and absently running his fingers down the fine layer of hair covering his leg.
"It's the risk you had to take when you first slept with me."
"I suppose this is true," Eames said, chewing the inside of his cheek thoughtfully, "but I don't think I'd have it any other way."
They were quiet for a long moment, listening to the chorus of insects outside interspersed with the rustle of trees. Eames pressed a tiny kiss to Arthur's ankle and Arthur made a pleased noise and closed his eyes, smiling softly.
Eames, feeling generous, pretended not to see.
*
The sun had barely risen when Eames rolled out of bed that morning. He left Arthur asleep on his stomach, the covers twisted around his hips, and pressed a kiss to the slope of his shoulder, knowing he could get away with it. He ruffled Arthur's hair too, on the assumption that Arthur was too heavily asleep to notice, but Arthur had waved him off and rolled away, pulling the sheets over his head and grumping that he find someone else to bother at this hour.
The house was eerily still, the light of the morning creeping in faintly through the windows as Eames padded down the creaking stairs, intent to go foraging for coffee. What he didn't expect was to see David in the kitchen, head deep in the fridge in his superman pajamas.
"Hello, David," Eames said, stopping by the counter, utterly bewildered. David turned, a frown creasing his face as he pushed the fridge closed behind him. Eames smiled at him until he remembered that he'd just fucked Arthur the night before in the room adjacent to his. He frowned and hoped he didn't look as guilty as he felt.
"There's no food." David sniffed, rubbing his nose, "I want pancakes."
"Isn't it your birthday today?" Eames asked, kneeling down in front of him. "Happy birthday, David! You're six now, six is a good age, I think."
David ignored his false bravado, and pouted even as Eames mussed up the top of his hair. "I want pancakes." he continued to sniff, looking as if he were on the verge of a tantrum.
"All right," Eames conceded. "We'll get you some pancakes."
*
Eames took Jane's minivan, despite it being a social disgrace and an absolute violation of his personal credo, and left a note taped on the fridge to inform Arthur of his whereabouts. Eventually, the embarrassment went away as he parked in front of the least dubious 24-hour diner. The state was full of them, minivans and diners.
David bounded out of the car before he could even turn the engine off. Inside were these middle aged waitresses who poured coffee and chatted up customers, their hair pulled back neatly and caged in hairnets. There were very few people in that morning, a family of four sat in the south booth, a young woman in a leather jacket was eating hash browns in a corner while an old man hunched over his morning coffee, leaning his elbows on the counter, asking for a refill.
A waitress came over and put a paper mat on the table as Eames sat down and made himself comfortable. She was exuberant and wore butterfly glasses. "Hi!" she said, patting him on the shoulder in a gesture that he would've interpreted differently had he been elsewhere, like Copenhagen, "I haven't seen you before. You're not from around here, are you?"
"No," Eames laughed. "I'm just passing through."
David ordered pancakes and ice cream and Eames settled for coffee after perusing the menu and coming to the conclusion that everything in it was probably going to give him heart burn.
After forty minutes of David shoveling food in his mouth and Eames drinking very bad coffee, they finally left, armed with grilled sandwiches wrapped in brown paper bags. David, blissfully fed, dragged Eames to the car hurriedly so they could go home and prepare for his party and tell his grandmother he didn't want a Superman birthday cake but a Spiderman one.
The same waitress winked at them, snapping her gum by the doorway as Eames prepared to drive off. "You have an adorable son," she said. "Enjoy your grilled cheese sandwich!"
Eames didn't know how to respond to that so he just smiled and waved feebly. When he pulled into the road, he reached over to make sure David's seatbelt was fastened securely.
David wiggled in his seat and asked him what his favourite color was.
*
"You're spoiling him." Arthur said as he picked at the burnt crusts of his sandwich.
"He's your son," Eames shrugged, watching from the doorway as David climbed up the sofa and turned the television on to cartoons. "By extension I have to -"
Arthur raised a brow, daring him to continue. "He's a good boy," Eames said instead, snatching Arthur's sandwich and taking a wide bite. He wiped his mouth on a paper napkin, crowding Arthur against the counter and leaning close enough that their hips touched.
"Besides," he continued lazily, trailing up his fingers to brush the crumbs from Arthur's mouth, "I'm good with children. They love me. They are completely irrevocably charmed by me. I could say the same for you."
Arthur looked doubtful but didn't protest as Eames pressed his nose to his cheek.
"Don't worry about it," Eames said near his ear, rubbing his back when he stiffened. "You're a good father and you're doing the best you can. My father's idea of a good time was throwing beer bottles over my mother's head."
"Eames," Arthur said.
Eames laughed and stepped back, tapping him on the nose. "It's his birthday. Stop being such a stick in the mud and live a little, mm? Have fun with him, he's your son. He wants pancakes, buy him pancakes! I honestly don't even know what you want me here for."
"Comic relief," Arthur supplied helpfully, smirking when Eames feigned heartbreak at the admission, throwing his hands over his chest.
"You wound me, darling, you wound me."
*
David's party was phenomenal, or at the very least, as phenomenal as parties for six year olds could get. There was cake and plenty of ice cream to go around, a magician and a sexy assistant who, Eames learned later on, slipped Arthur her number, saying she only worked weekends and was willing to give him a private show.
There was also a three foot piñata in the shape of a popular pink starfish under which everyone milled about and took turns hitting with a baseball bat, employing such unbridled violence that even Eames was stunned speechless.
He sat in a corner, watching as the less embittered kids ran around in the backyard, toting balloons and screaming their heads off. The chair he was squatting on was not made for grown men, pink and plastic and supporting only half his ass. It took some careful maneuvering but he managed to make himself comfortable.
Arthur found him a few minutes later, calmly observing the festivities at a safe distance. He had party hat strapped onto his head and a morose look on his face as if he couldn't quite believe the atrocity he was wearing. He pulled an equally tiny children's chair next to Eames, picking his way through a wobbly slice of cake with a red plastic fork.
"I like your hat." Eames commented cheerfully, flicking the tip of the cone.
"Thank you," Arthur said, mouth twitching. They watched as David chased his friends around in his Superman costume, icing smeared all over his mouth and his fiery red cape flapping behind him.
Eames smiled without meaning to. "Aren't you going to feed me some cake?" he asked, tipping his chair back and raising his eyebrows at Arthur.
Arthur shrugged. "There's plenty more in the kitchen. I'll guard your seat if you want."
Eames laughed. He shook his head and turned away, just in time to see the kids gather around the party magician, David at the forefront, gasping in awe as the man pulled out a live rabbit from a hat.
The afternoon was warm and pleasant, the kind of weather perfect for cookouts in the backyard. Eames pulled down Arthur's party hat and mussed the top of his hair, pleased when Arthur didn't shake him off or turn away.
He had some cake on his chin which Eames quickly thumbed away with the pad of his finger. Arthur raised a brow but didn't comment, although he did scoot closer to hand Eames his plate of leftover cake. Probably because he was feeling generous.
He could live like this, Eames thought, casting a long look at David, then at Jane, and the neighbors who'd decided to come today, before finally at Arthur, party hat slumped to the side of his head.
And it was the strangest thing in the world, but for the first time in a long time Eames almost felt serene.