Darling,

It all happened so quickly, Mal jumping, Dom calling Arthur, Arthur getting Dom out of the country and safe, that Dom never had time to tell James and Phillipa about Mal’s death, or about anything, for that matter. He’d hurriedly packed up and left with Arthur’s contact shortly after. He didn’t even have time to say goodbye to his kids.

So now it’s up to Arthur to do everything. He goes over to Dom’s house and finds James and Phillipa playing together under the watchful eye of Mal’s mother. Arthur wonders if Adélie knows. He pulls her aside and the moment he mentions Mal, her eyes darken and Arthur immediately shuts up. She knows. She knows and she’s not happy and she probably thinks this is all Dom’s fault (and, as Arthur has learned that Mal inherited her stubborn streak from her mother, there’s no persuading Adélie otherwise once she’s made up her mind).

“Have you told the kids yet?” Arthur asks, standing beside her, watching as James and Phillipa lie in the grass and giggle at bugs.

“No,” she says softly. “I don’t have the heart to. They’re so young.”

Arthur nods and he agrees with her, but he knows that he has to tell them, he has to or they’ll start asking questions, start wondering where mommy is, where daddy is, what happened to the stable, loving family they once had, and if he puts off this explanation, it’ll only make it worse when they finally find out the truth. As much as it kills him, he has to do it. Before he leaves. Today. Now.

“James, Phillipa,” he calls out to them. He motions for them to come over, “Time to come inside.”

The two children look up and their faces lift into wide smiles, excited to see him, and Phillipa squeals, “Uncle Arthur!” and scrambles up to her feet to run over to him, James toddling along behind her. Arthur smiles and hugs Phillipa. He scoops James up in his arms and they all go inside. Adélie sends Arthur a distraught look, but he makes a face to show that he has no choice. He really doesn’t.

“Where’s mommy?” Phillipa asks right away. “She’s not home yet from yesterday.”

Arthur’s chest aches at the childish harmlessness in Phillipa’s innocent question. It’s painful how Phillipa’s asking the very question that will lead to endless tears and heartbreak and sorrow. Arthur sighs and sits down on the couch with James in his lap. Phillipa climbs up onto the couch next to him and looks at him with wide, slate-grey eyes so much like her mother’s.

“What’s wrong, Uncle Arthur?” Phillipa asks. “Where’s mommy?”

Arthur smiles sadly and tucks Phillipa’s long, dark blonde hair back behind her ear. “Your mommy’s…” – Arthur hesitates for a moment, trying to find the right word that won’t be too cruel and blunt – “Your mommy’s gone,” he finally says. “She’s not coming back.”

Phillipa’s eyes widen. “Gone?” she asks in a high pitched voice filled with panic. “She left?”

Arthur struggles to think of a way to explain this. “Sort of,” Arthur says slowly. “She’s not here anymore.”

Phillipa squints at him, her young mind trying to process everything Arthur is telling her. “But,” Phillipa reasons, “She’ll come back to visit, right?”

Arthur shakes his head. “No,” he answers, “She won’t, because she can’t. She’s gone.”

He puts a little more emphasis on his words this time, hoping that Phillipa will get it. He really doesn’t want to have to say the words “your mommy is dead” to the girl; just the thought breaks his heart. He can’t do it. He can’t. He won’t.

A look of realization passes over Phillipa’s face (she gets it, Arthur thinks with a weak feeling of triumph overtaken by grief), quickly replaced by watery eyes and a heart wrenching, open-mouthed frown. She breaks down into sobs in no time and Arthur holds her as she cries into his shoulder, clinging onto him with small, childish hands.

Arthur’s not sure James fully understands what’s going on, as he’s too young to really know of death, but he seems to understand that he’ll never see Mal again and he too begins to cry. Arthur holds the two of them and does his best to comfort him, but he’s never been the best at that. And he’s trying really hard not to cry again too, because he can’t do that in front of these kids; he needs to be strong for them. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Adélie watching them all with helpless distress, a silent tear or two trailing down her face as well.
There’s nothing any of them can do to make anyone else feel better, because they’re all equally as upset, equally as heartbroken. There’s nothing any of them can do.

-

The funeral plans are quickly arranged, just in time for Arthur to make it before he leaves to go find Dom (who, Arthur’s been informed, is going by just Cobb now). Arthur dresses in his nicest suit that day and goes over to Dom’s house to pick up James, Phillipa, and Adélie, who can’t drive so Arthur has to. The two kids sit in the back of the car, dressed up nicely by their grandmother and solemnly quiet, and Adélie sits up front in the passenger seat next to Arthur. Her eyes are pained, and she’s a strong woman, Arthur knows, but she’s not as together as she might seem. None of them are.

The funeral is simple, with just a few close friends invited. Adélie holds little James in her arms and Arthur holds onto Phillipa’s hand because she refuses to let go. The sky is murky with clouds and they’re far enough away from downtown Los Angeles that the sounds of cars racing on the highways have faded into the distance. Arthur clutches a small bouquet of white calla lilies (Mal’s favorite) in his hand. Mal’s father, Miles, has flown in from Paris and he stands separate from Adélie, a somber expression on his face (if you’ll recall, Mal’s parents are, in fact, divorced).

The short ceremony ends and Mal’s coffin is buried. Phillipa begins crying again and Arthur bends to lift her up onto his hip so she can cry into his shoulder, not even caring that this will ruin his favorite and most expensive suit (things like that seem so insignificant at times like this). Adélie is attempting to hush James while trying not to burst into hysterics herself. Looking around, Arthur can see that nearly everyone’s eyes or cheeks are damp.

People begin to slowly trickle away, sniffling and murmuring soft words of condolence to each other and Mal’s family. Arthur lingers behind and lets Adélie lead the two kids away. When he’s the only one still there, he sighs quietly to himself and goes to place the lilies down on Mal’s grave. He sticks his hands in his pockets and looks down at the letters carved into the grave that spell out Mallorie Cobb in capital letters. His chest aches, and he clutches his die in his pocket so hard that the corners dig painfully into his hand.

“You really loved her, didn’t you?” a voice from behind Arthur speaks.

He’s startled, but he doesn’t jump or flinch. He does, however, recognize the voice, the distinctive, drawling accent, the slur of the words. Eames.

“What are you doing here?” Arthur asks without turning around.

Eames walks up beside Arthur and imitates him, looking down at the tombstone. “I came to pay my respects, of course,” he replies, and his voice is softer than ever before. Death has a tendency to do that to people. “It’s only right that I should do so.”

Arthur can’t think of anything to say to that, because now that he thinks about it, Eames is sort of a friend, right? They’ve worked together on nearly every job they’ve taken, or at least those that are more complicated than the most basic Extraction, and, well, they probably know more about Eames than anyone. So he’s a friend, sort of. Not quite. Close enough.

“I’m sorry,” Eames murmurs after a few moments’ silence. “I know you were close.”

Arthur just nods. He doesn’t respond this time because he can’t respond, because he’s afraid that if he opens his mouth to speak, he’ll burst into tears, and he doesn’t want to cry in front of Eames, not again. He doesn’t want to look weak.

Arthur sees Eames move out of his periphery and then the next thing he knows, Eames’ fingers are ghosting up his jaw, familiar, calloused fingers walking up to the back of his neck. Arthur turns slightly to Eames and sees his own sadness reflected in the Forger’s eyes, and for what’s possibly the first time, Arthur can’t find it in him to hate Eames. It’s pretty clear that Eames is shaken by this, that he’s hurting just like the rest of them, that maybe, somewhere under all the disguises and masks, he has a heart. And somehow, Arthur just can’t hate that.

And then Eames’ lips are on his, gentler than ever, and Arthur feels himself momentarily melt into Eames like he always does. He moves his lips with Eames’ and kisses him with all the impatience and frustration and suffering he’s keeping bottled up within himself. Eames holds him carefully, as if he’ll break to the touch, and maybe, maybe Arthur actually will.

Then it starts, that familiar feeling of betrayal, of disloyalty, that Arthur can never identify a reason for. It makes him feel a little sick to his stomach, like he’s some terrible person, but he doesn’t know why. And then it hits him. It’s because he’s kissing Eames. It’s because he’s kissing Eames while standing on Mal’s grave, and for some reason, somehow, it feels, to Arthur, like he’s cheating on her – which really doesn’t make sense because he and Mal aren’t together, they’ve never been together and he never had a chance with her, but it still feels like he’s cheating on her, like he’s being completely unfaithful, and he can’t shake the feeling. It just feels so entirely wrong.

Arthur pushes Eames away from him, suddenly furious. He scowls and then looks away, not knowing whether to be angrier with himself or with Eames. Eames blinks, completely caught off guard, and looks at Arthur in confusion. He opens his mouth to ask Arthur what that was all about when Arthur speaks, beating him to it.

“Leave,” he says sharply.

Eames furrows his eyebrows. His confusion grows. He’s not really following Arthur’s train of thought. “I beg your pardon?”

Arthur glares at Eames and repeats, words harsh and biting, “Leave. Get out of my sight. Stop trying to find me all the time.”

Eames holds his hands up and takes half a step away. “Come on now,” he tries to reason with Arthur, “No use overreacting. Just calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Arthur shouts. If there’s one thing he hates, it’s people telling him to calm down when he obviously can’t, when he obviously has no control over himself.

“Arthur,” Eames presses on, still trying to reason with this completely irrational Arthur, and if Arthur weren’t so worked up right now, he might think it strange that Eames is addressing him by his name and only his name, no added on endearment or pet name for once. But Arthur is worked up and he’s not paying attention to trivial details like that, and he’s acting completely impulsively when he reaches to pull out his Glock (he’s very recently gotten a real one for real life situations; he doesn’t know if he’s safe anymore since Dom is now a wanted man and he’s so closely associated with Dom).

A flash of surprise and maybe fear flickers across Eames’ face. He wasn’t expecting that. Usually, Arthur is never this rash, but then again, Arthur’s never been under as much stress as this before. He may be the best Point Man in the business, but he’s still got a breaking point.

Arthur points the gun at Eames, and from this distance, Eames’ life is just one shot away from ending. Eames stares Arthur straight in the eye and doesn’t move, though it would be a lie to say that he’s not scared.

“Leave,” Arthur says.

“You wouldn’t,” Eames protests.

Arthur clicks the safety back and his hand doesn’t shake. “Leave now,” Arthur says and his voice is dangerously soft.

Eames doesn’t respond to that, but truthfully, he’s given up. He knows that it’s impossible to talk to Arthur when he’s in this kind of a state; he’s too stubborn, too absolutely focused on this one idea that he won’t be able to see anything else until he cools off. Eames nods once and sticks his hands in his pockets, turning on his heel to leave.

Arthur lowers his gun as he watches Eames walk away. He looks down at Mal’s grave again and kicks himself inwardly. He feels a little embarrassed now, almost like Mal can see him doing all this and is shaking her head disappointedly at him, grey eyes dark. He can almost picture it, unfolding in front of his eyes in blinding technicolor. Almost.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly to her tombstone as if she can hear him. “I’m so sorry.”