Darling,

Despite Mal’s dramatic change in disposition, they manage to successfully complete a few jobs. Mal’s work is less precise than it used to be, and it takes her much longer to finish constructing the dream space, but they manage to get it done, they manage to pull it off without getting caught. It’s different, though, awkward almost, because everything is so quiet and Mal is so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she hardly notices anything going on around her. It’s like her heart isn’t in it anymore, and it makes Arthur uncomfortable.

They take a short break as June fourteenth draws nearer, because that’s Mal and Dom’s anniversary. Ever since going into the business of Extraction, Mal and Dom have a few regular breaks they like to take: around the holidays, important birthdays (mostly just their children’s, as they let their own birthdays slide by without notice; age has no meaning when time is so distorted from going in and out of dreams all the time), and of course, their anniversary.

They get Adélie to watch the kids for the night. It’s their tradition to get a suite for themselves at this nice hotel downtown, and it’s always the same room. They’ll go out for dinner and probably to see a show or something, and forget, for just one night, that they have other things to attend to.

On the night of their anniversary, Arthur is sitting in his apartment, sitting out on his patio with his feet propped up on the railing as he sips at a glass of wine and just kind of lets his thoughts roll around in his head. This has become something of a habit of his, to end his days like this, with a little bit of quiet reflection. He’s not sure if he enjoys it or not, but those thoughts aren’t going anywhere, so, he thinks, he might as well let them run around his head for a bit.

He’s planning on spending the evening alone, and he thinks maybe he’ll finish that book he picked up in Barcelona but never finished. He’s already had dinner and feels perfectly content to just sit by himself on his patio, drinking rich red wine and maybe smoking a cigarette or two if he feels like it.

And then a knock from his door sounds.

Arthur furrows his eyebrows at this, not sure who could possibly be bothering him, because the only people he can think of are currently otherwise occupied. Arthur hesitates for a moment, but when the knock sounds again, he decides that maybe he should go see who’s there, if only to tell them they’ve got the wrong apartment, look somewhere else.
He sighs and strides over to the front door, setting his wine glass down on the kitchen countertop on the way over. He doesn’t even look remotely presentable (to his standards, anyways), but he doesn’t quite care. It’s whoever’s knocking on the door’s fault for just dropping in so unexpectedly.

Arthur yanks the door open and instantly regrets not being dressed more appropriately. He scowls.

“Eames,” he snaps. “What are you doing here?”

“And since when did you learn manners?” he wants to ask, because Eames has never knocked before, he’s always just let himself in, but Arthur stops himself before he manages to get the words out because if he asks, it’ll seem too much like he actually cares, which he most certainly does not.

“May I come in?” Eames asks, smiling as if this is completely normal.

Arthur frowns. “No,” he says shortly and tries to slam the door shut.

Eames is quick, however, much quicker than he looks and manages to stop the door with his toe before Arthur can get it shut.

“Now, now,” Eames says in this horrible, condescendingly amused tone that Arthur can’t stand. “I came all this way to see you and you won’t even let me in? That’s very rude of you.”

Arthur smirks wryly. “Well, I don’t remember you ever earning any degree of politeness from me,” he says and tries to close the door again, but Eames’ foot is still in the way.

He glares at Eames in an attempt to shoo him away, but Eames doesn’t budge. In fact, Eames just smiles a little wider Arthur groans.

“You’re impossible!” Arthur exclaims, finally just giving up and walking away from his door back into his apartment. He’s not in the mood to deal with this tonight.

Eames smiles victoriously and follows Arthur in, and it’s only then that Arthur notices the bag in Eames’ hand. He raises his eyebrows in suspicion at it.

“What’s that?” he asks, almost afraid to hear the answer. Knowing Eames, it really could be anything (and by anything, he really means anything).

Eames hoists the bag up onto the kitchen counter and starts rummaging through Arthur’s cabinets as if he owns the place. “Ingredients,” Eames says. “A little birdie told me it was your birthday a couple weeks ago, and I missed it. I’m baking you a cake.”

Arthur wrinkles up his nose at that. He’s a little picky about his sweets and he’s not sure if he’ll like whatever Eames is planning to make for him.

“Why?” Arthur asks and Eames laughs.

“For your birthday,” he repeats. And then he adds, “And besides, I think we really do need to fatten you up a bit. You’re looking rather thin – well, thinner than usual, anyways. A little sugar couldn’t hurt.”

Eames proceeds to go about mixing together the ingredients he brought into a large bowl of Arthur’s that he found while rifling through the kitchen cabinets. He takes a moment to stop and ask if Arthur has any allergies (he doesn’t) only after he’s begun.

“What are you doing here?” Arthur asks, crossing his arms across his chest and leaning one hip against the counter as he watches Eames.

Eames smiles but doesn’t look up at Arthur. “We just went over this, darling,” he says, amused. “I’m baking you a cake.”

Arthur shakes head and smiles a little despite himself. “That’s not what I meant,” he clarifies. “I meant what are you doing here, in Los Angeles? Last I heard, you were in Buenos Aires.”

Eames looks up at Arthur now. His eyes tease Arthur playfully and he says breezily, “You might want to check your sources, love. That was four days ago.”

Arthur frowns, getting the unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach like he gets every time he should know something but doesn’t. He watches Eames for a while, wanting to ask him again why he’s here, because surely, he can’t live here, right? Arthur knows for a fact from the extensive background research that he did on Eames that first time they worked together that Eames does own one and only one permanent place of residence, and that’s in London. And Arthur’s smart enough not to flatter himself by thinking that Eames keeps returning to Los Angeles just to see him. That would just be ridiculous.

“Hey, come here,” Eames beckons after a little. He motions to the bowl of what looks like chocolate cake batter. “Try this and tell me if you like it.”

Arthur sighs, a little apprehensive. He isn’t always often fond of chocolate; it has to be done right for him to like it. He goes over, anyways, as requested, and dips his finger into the bowl, making a show of licking the batter off just to get Eames all worked up. The following sigh of contentment at the flavor that dances along his tongue isn’t fake, though, because as always, Eames cooking is absolutely delicious, and Arthur can tell already that he’s going to like this cake a lot.

“It’s chocolate raspberry,” Eames says in a strained voice, and Arthur can tell that he’s driving Eames absolutely crazy.

Arthur smirks and steals some more batter from the bowl, licking it off of his fingers with deliberate actions.

“Hm,” he says and licks a dollop of chocolate off of his thumb, “Interesting.”

Arthur barely has time to react before Eames is crushing his body against Arthur’s, catching his lips in his own. Arthur tastes like wine and insolence and chocolate, and Eames just about invades his mouth, drawing a low groan from Arthur. The edge of the kitchen counter digs uncomfortably into Arthur’s side, but with Eames’ hands mapping his body and Eames’ body pressed flush up against his, he hardly even feels it.