Darling,

They take an uncommonly long break after a particularly difficult job in Amsterdam, and Mal and Dom claim it’s simply to give them all a break because a job this complicated (two dream layers, sedatives, forgeries, and every last trick in the book) deserves a break, but Arthur suspects otherwise. Mal has that look in her eye again, that little sparkle, that swing in her step.

Arthur tries to settle back into whatever domestic life he’d let behind and helps Mal and Dom with watching Phillipa, taking her to and from preschool, keeping an eye on her while she runs around the backyard with her best friend, that girl, Blythe. It’s one of these afternoons, while Arthur is watching the two girls play with their dolls, when his suspicions are confirmed.

Dom has taken Mal to a doctor’s appointment, and they come back all smiles. Arthur stands from the couch to greet them and Mal envelops Arthur in a hug, the light, flowery scent of her perfume surrounding him in a delicate cloud. He’s overwhelmed for a moment and then realizes that Mal must have something exciting to tell him and pulls away from her embrace to look her in the eye.

“I’m pregnant,” she announces, wise grey eyes smiling happily.

“Oh!” Arthur says in surprise. He blinks a few times and ignores the almost-lonely-but-not-quite feeling in his chest that always accompanies news like this, news that everyone else has a life and he’s stuck being all by himself. “Congratulations.”

Mal thanks him and goes to make a phone call to inform her each of her parents of this news, and Dom comes over to Arthur, hands in his pockets, gazing over at Mal with fond amusement.

“She’s really excited,” Dom says.

Arthur sighs and runs a hand through his hair, not sure whether he wants to smile or cry more –but no, he never cries, never, and he certainly doesn’t intend to start now, so he just makes himself smile pleasantly like a good friend should and lets out a soft laugh.

“Really?” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I couldn’t tell.”

Dom raises his eyebrows at Arthur and chuckles. “Not too thrilled?” he asks Arthur, and Arthur can’t do anything but laugh.

“No, no,” he shakes his head, “It’s nothing like that. I’m happy for you guys, really, but kids are just so exhausting sometimes. Don’t you get tired?”

Dom laughs warmly and claps Arthur on the back. Arthur smiles and looks over at Phillipa and Blythe. There are some times he almost does feel like he’s a parent already, being, for all intents and purposes, Phillipa’s surrogate uncle. He does all this parenting, but he’s easier on Phillipa sometimes, letting her have ice cream even though dinner’s not more than an hour away, buying her goodies, spoiling her rotten. He’s got such a soft spot for this little girl who looks so much like her mother.

The doorbell rings and Dom goes to get it. Arthur goes to tell Blythe that it’s probably her aunt and she should make sure she has everything she brought with her. And sure enough, a blonde woman walks into the room chatting with Dom, Blythe’s aunt. Arthur thinks she looks rather familiar, but he just assumes that’s because they have indeed met a couple times before this, which indeed they have. She smiles at Arthur and extends a hand.

“I think we’ve met before,” she says, and Arthur thinks he can hear the barest hint of some kind of accent; he can’t quite tell what it is, though, since it’s so faint. “I’m Rory, Blythe’s aunt.”

Arthur smiles politely and shakes her hand. “Arthur,” he says. “I’m just a friend.”

Rory laughs and Mal comes in then, smiling happily at the blonde woman and pulling her into a friendly hug. The two of them get along well.

“Blythe, honey, you ready to go?” Rory asks the brunette girl playing with Phillipa.

Blythe looks up at her aunt, pausing in her attempt to do up her doll’s hair. “Is daddy home?” she asks, all wide eyes and innocence.

Rory smiles somewhat sadly at her young niece and shakes her head. “I’m sorry, dear,” she coos. “He’s not home yet, but he will soon, tonight, actually. What do you say we go and bake him some cookies for when he comes home?”

Blythe nods eagerly and Rory’s smile takes on a loving warmth. Mal looks to Rory.

“He is away a lot?” Mal asks, eyebrows knit with concern.

“Yeah,” Rory sighs, mussing up Blythe’s hair affectionately. “Jack’s job is insane. He’s almost constantly travelling.”

Mal puts a hand on Rory’s shoulder and turns sympathetic eyes on her. Rory simply laughs and says it’s really no big deal; she loves Blythe and doesn’t mind taking care of her one bit. They then bid goodbye to the Cobbs and Arthur and they leave in good spirits, Blythe chattering along in broken toddler’s talk about cookies and her father and do they have chocolate chips?

Arthur sighs to himself after they leave and asks Mal and Dom if this whole kid-on-the-way thing means they won’t be taking any jobs for a while. Mal laughs and tells Arthur not to worry; they’ll still be working. Mal just won’t go under anymore, just like last time when she was pregnant with Phillipa. Arthur feels a sense of relief wash over him as Mal says this; he doesn’t know what he would’ve done with himself had they stopped working. He needs this work; he needs to stay busy.

-

A couple weeks and then a month passes in this lull between jobs, and Dom swears he’s looking for more work for them but Arthur is beginning to think he’s just stalling because Mal’s pregnant and Dom doesn’t want Mal to work when she’s pregnant. And Arthur appreciates the sentiment and shares Dom’s opinion, because really, Mal should not be exerting herself so much when she has more important things to worry about, but enough is enough. Arthur can’t just sit around forever. He needs something to do.

Why, he thinks, why can’t he and Dom just do one job together, just the two of them, just a simple job, so Arthur can have something to keep him busy so he won’t lose his mind? But every time this question passes through his mind, he immediately knows the answer. It’s because Dom doesn’t want to leave Mal alone for so long; he wants to be home, he wants to be with her.

And Arthur gets all this, he really does, it’s just that he’s getting antsy. He’s getting antsy and he’s taken to going to the shooting range as often as his can to blow off steam. He stays up too late doing pointless things and drinks too much coffee. He rolls his die at least once every day, takes it out more often as time goes on.

A couple weeks and then a month passes and when Arthur comes home from picking up some groceries, he finds his apartment a mess. A pair of shoes he should recognize but doesn’t have been haphazardly kicked off by the door and a truly hideous tweed jacket has been thrown carelessly over the back of the couch. The windows have been thrown open to let in the light breeze from outside and the kitchen looks like it’s been ransacked. Arthur takes a few hesitant steps into his apartment and then sees why.

Eames is humming contentedly to himself, happily acting as if he’s not intruding in Arthur’s apartment. Arthur blinks twice at what Eames is wearing, which is nothing more than a pair of worn out jeans and a wife beater, and wonders how, for once since their first job together, Eames managed to get dressed without putting together the most blinding combinations of clothing and why he looks so good (because it’s undeniable; Eames pulls off this look far too well).

Eames is cooking something on Arthur’s stove, using Arthur’s food, and whatever it is, it smells absolutely delicious and Arthur hates him for it. Arthur drops the groceries on the counter in a huff, and Eames turns around upon hearing the noise. He smiles as if it’s not entirely strange for him to be standing there in the middle of Arthur’s apartment.

“Ah, you’re home,” Eames greets, and Arthur hates how Eames makes this sound like some sort of domestic routine they have. “I was wondering when you’d be back. Tell me; do you like zucchini?”

Arthur ignores Eames’ comment altogether, not bothering to mention that yes, he loves zucchini and only wishes he knew how to cook better, because anything he makes only ends up being a charred black lump – and how did Eames know that anyways; it’s fucking annoying as hell how Eames seems to just know everything, and it’s not like Arthur goes around discussing his food preferences all the time, anyways, who in their right mind does anything like that?

“What are you doing here?” Arthur asks, words sharp and angry. He knows he sounds petulant, but he has a right to be. After all, Eames has just broken into his apartment; any sane person would react this way. “How did you even find out where I live?”

Eames just shrugs and turns back to his cooking. “I have my sources,” he says slyly.

Arthur narrows his eyes at Eames. “Mal told you, didn’t she?” he accuses. He’s almost positive it’s her; there are only so many people who know where he lives, and Mal is the only one who’d ever give out his address to random criminals – or in this case, Eames. Mal thinks he and Eames are cute. If Arthur didn’t adore Mal so much, he’d probably be more inclined to kill her.

Eames shuts off the flame on the stove and wipes his hands clean on a dishtowel. He walks over to Arthur and slides his hands over Arthur’s hips. Arthur scowls at Eames and how Eames is acting like they’re involved or something, which they most certainly are not. In fact, Arthur has never wanted to strangle Eames more in his life.

“Now, now, love,” Eames murmurs, “I can’t tell you that. If I did, I’d be guilty for enabling murder, and I don’t want that on my conscience.”

Arthur growls and shoves Eames’ chest none too gently. “Since when do you have a conscience?” he snaps.

“Ouch,” Eames says, feigning hurt but chuckling anyways. “You wound me. But, you know, I didn’t come here to argue with you, Arthur dear.”

Eames’ voice has dropped to a low purr at this point and Arthur is beginning to feel aroused despite himself. It’s just that Eames looks so goddamn tempting dressed like that and well, Arthur has his needs, okay?

“Oh?” Arthur raises an eyebrow.

Eames smirks. “Mhmm,” he mumbles against Arthur’s neck. “I was thinking I’d make you dinner and then maybe I’d take you to bed and have my way with you.”

Arthur tilts his head back and lets Eames nip at his skin, biting back the urge to groan at the sensation this sends through his body. Maybe, he thinks, maybe dinner can wait.