Darling,

They manage to get a couple jobs in while Mal is pregnant. They’re simple jobs, very straightforward, nothing that requires any more than one dream layer, nothing that requires Mal to go under, and the best part: nothing that requires a forger, which Arthur is glad for most of the time, because now he can finally work in peace and get things done and not have to worry about missing anything because a certain obnoxiously arrogant British man thought it’d be a good idea to distract him.

The only time Arthur lets himself feel any sort of regret that Eames isn’t there, any feeling remotely akin to missing the Forger, is when he lays alone in his bed at night, aching to feel Eames’ skin on his, aching for release. He can’t quite remember how many times he’s thought of Eames in the dead of the night and let his hands wander low under the sheets as he imagines the murmur of Eames’ voice in his ear, how many times he tastes Eames’ name on his tongue as he comes in his own hand. He doesn’t like to think about these nights.

But in the end, work is work and Arthur is just glad he doesn’t have to sit around all day drowning in his thoughts.

-

When the new baby boy is born, Phillipa is almost four years old and Arthur is somewhere around twenty-three (he’s almost lost count of how many years he’s been around). He feels old, though, feels like he’s twice his age, stuck in this body that’s too young for him. He feels like he’s seen too much, done too much for someone his age, and he knows it’s a side-effect of so much dreaming, but that knowledge doesn’t really help alleviate the feeling like he’s trapped under the surface of his own skin.

He takes Phillipa to the hospital after the baby is born and she’s babbling furiously as Arthur tries to focus and actually get them safely to the hospital all while listening attentively enough to her so that she won’t feel like he’s ignoring her. It’s not exactly easy, but he doesn’t mind. He finds Phillipa’s running commentary of everything rather adorable.
When they actually get to the hospital, Phillipa runs off down the hall ahead of him, shouting for Arthur to hurry up, she wants to see her mommy and daddy and new baby brother. Arthur just smiles softly at her and takes her by the hand to bring her to the right room. They walk in and Phillipa immediately squeals and darts over to where Mal is on the hospital bed, cradling the baby and smiling happily.

Mal greets her daughter with enthusiasm and looks over to give Arthur a smile that Arthur returns. He puts his hands in his pockets and walks over to her.

“How are you?” he asks. Mal looks tired.

She smiles and looks lovingly down at the baby boy in her arms. “Never been better,” she says and then she looks back up at Arthur. “His name is James.”

Arthur gives her a small half-smile and nods, trying to stamp down the itching feeling clawing at his skin. Mal studies his face carefully for a moment, grey eyes both perceptive and expressive at once, and she looks meaningfully over at Dom.

Dom knows that look. It’s that look she always gets when she wants to talk to Arthur about something, something that she wants to say for him, just for him and no one else. Dom knows that look and knows that Mal loves him dearly but she and Arthur were friends before she knew Dom and she needs her space, needs her time with Arthur, and so Dom takes baby James from Mal and leads Phillipa over to the other side of the room to give them some privacy.

Mal scoots over on the hospital bed she’s sitting up on and motions for him to sit. Arthur sighs and takes his hands out of his pockets, sitting down next to her a little reluctantly. He doesn’t know what she’s going to say, but he’s pretty sure he’s not going to like the sound of it.

Mal sighs softly and lifts a hand to smooth back a few strands of Arthur’s hair that have fallen out of his usual slicked-back do. She lets her fingertips trace along his jaw and frowns. He’s tense, she can feel it in the clench of his jaw, the look in his eye.

“How are you, Arthur?” she asks quietly, thoughtfully. “Are you alright?”

Arthur knows that the answer, if he’s completely honest with himself, is no, no he’s not alright, he sometimes feels like there’s something missing in his life, like his entire existence is pointless and empty and going absolutely nowhere, this dreadful sensation he often gets when he returns home to his empty apartment with no one to greet him and ask him how his day went and maybe cook him dinner since he can’t cook to save his life, but he doesn’t want to trouble Mal; she’s tired and should be worrying about more important things than his emotional state of being. So he forces himself to smile and nods once.

“Of course,” he replies. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Mal presses her lips together into a thin line and lets her hand drop from Arthur’s face. She takes his hand in hers instead and leans over to press a kiss to his temple.

“I worry about you, Arthur,” she murmurs.

“So I’ve heard,” Arthur replies, very careful to stay absolutely still.

Mal backs away a little bit and Arthur lets himself breathe again. “Are you lonely?” Mal asks him.

Arthur opens his mouth to respond but the words die in his mouth. He can’t figure out an honest, correct way to answer that question that won’t worry Mal. He doesn’t want to lie and say no, he’s not lonely, because truthfully, he is sometimes, he’s so lonely, feels so left behind, forgotten sometimes that it hurts, but he knows if he says that to Mal, she’ll fret about it for the rest of his life (or at least until he finds his place, somewhere to settle down for real, which in all honestly might not happen for a very, very long time, so it might as well be the rest of his life). Arthur settles for somewhere in the middle, that grey area where it’s hard to tell if it’s the truth or simply made up because it’s kind of both.

“I’m alright,” is all Arthur says. “I manage.”

Mal furrows her eyebrows at him and runs her fingers absently over his knuckles. “But are you happy?” she asks. “Are you really, truly happy?”

Arthur blinks rapidly at that, as if this will somehow help him come up with an adequate answer, and he realizes only a moment later that his mouth is open as if he’s going to speak, which, as it seems, he isn’t. He closes his mouth and presses his lips firmly together.

Mal sighs again and squeezes his hand emphatically. “I often fear you live too much for others and not enough for yourself,” she muses, and it’s one of those moments Arthur wishes she didn’t say so much with her eyes, because right now, she looks so sad and regretful and anxious that it makes his chest tighten a little.

“I’m fine,” Arthur insists, and like every other time they’ve had a conversation like this, Mal just looks at him in that significant way of hers but doesn’t argue any further. Maybe she’s just learnt to give up over the years, or maybe she just hopes that if she simply repeats this same thing enough, Arthur will begin to work it out himself, but either way, she drops the subject and turns back over to Dom, slipping her hand away from Arthur’s.

Arthur thinks it’s a wonder that Mal doesn’t manage to get every man she meets to fall in love with her. They must be crazy, those guys, they really must be, or maybe Arthur’s the crazy one and is just putting Mal up on a pedestal, thinking her more than she actually is – and good lord, he really needs to stop thinking like this; sooner or later, he’s going to drive himself insane.