Darling,

Eames is the first to recover from the initial shock and schools his expression into his usual smile. The kids have gone quiet, looking curiously between the two men, and Adélie just looks uncomfortable. She can tell, anyone could tell, that Arthur and Eames must have something of a history with each other, and not an entirely pleasant one either (actually, Arthur’s not quite sure if their history together can be considered in the simple terms of good or bad, because really, more than anything, it’s just complicated, complicated and twisted and full of too many drunken nights and meaningless sex and beds left empty in the morning).

“Well, well,” Eames says with the practiced nonchalance required of a superb Forger, “I can’t say I expected to see you here.”

Arthur doesn’t respond for several moments. He finds that he can’t; his voice seems to have failed him. And in the ensuing silence, it’s kind of just awkward for everyone, but Eames smiles easily at Arthur anyways and Arthur glares right back. Why, he thinks, why is it that Eames manages to invade the one place Arthur thought safe?

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Eames says after a long silence.

Arthur narrows his eyes at Eames. “So it has,” he says, careful to keep his voice even, though admittedly, some of the bitterness he’s feeling seeps through.

Phillipa, who’s climbed up onto the couch next to Arthur, looks back and forth between Arthur and Eames with wide eyes. “You know him?” she asks.

Arthur slowly looks over to Phillipa, as if he’s almost reluctant to look away from Eames for fear that the man will do something dangerous or unsavory if Arthur’s not watching out.

“Yes,” he says and it’s taking increasingly more effort to keep his tone civil. He’d shout if it weren’t for the kids in the room. He’s been told that he’s rather frightening when he yells, and he doesn’t want to scare any of the three children; they never did anything wrong, it’s Eames Arthur’s irritated with.

Phillipa smiles openly and leans over to whisper in Arthur’s ear. “He’s so nice,” she confides in him.

Arthur tries really hard not to scowl at this, but honestly, it’s getting a little difficult. Hearing anyone, even sweet, innocent little Phillipa, call Eames nice when Eames is the farthest from nice Arthur can think of, when Eames is a criminal with little to no morals and a penchant for sweet talking every woman he sees (and Arthur as well), when Eames has never once been there when Arthur wakes after they sleep together, never there to greet him with a smile good morning and a cup of hot coffee – Arthur just can’t put the words “Eames” and “nice” in the same sentence.

“I’m sure he is,” Arthur manages to say in an indifferent tone.

His eyes slide over to Eames again, who’s smiling and listening intently as Blythe recounts some story for him. Arthur looks meaningfully over at Adélie, who catches the hint and beckons the kids over to the kitchen, asking them if they want to be taste testers for the dinner she’s making. They all agree happily and leave to the next room where Arthur can just barely see them through the doorway.

Eames puts his hands casually in his pockets and smiles beatifically at Arthur. “Something wrong, love?” he asks, and there’s that taunting, flirting edge to his voice that Arthur hates so much.

“Why are you here?” Arthur asks sharply. “I heard you were in Frankfurt.”

Eames’ smile shifts slightly and Arthur can’t put his finger on exactly what about it changes, but it makes him all the more annoyed anyways.

“I think I recall saying that you ought to check your sources,” Eames says smoothly, “Because obviously, I am no longer there.”

The casualness in Eames’ voice, the way he makes this sound like this is such a normal occurrence between them does nothing to soothe Arthur’s already frayed nerves. He’s stressed out from work and worrying about Dom; he came back here looking forward to relaxing with the kids, unwinding, forgetting about his illegal life for just a little bit. He didn’t come back here looking for a fight.

Arthur sighs and places his newspaper aside. He stands and rolls his shoulders back.
“I haven’t heard from you in a while,” Eames says, and he almost sounds sad, but Arthur is quite sure that’s just an act, just like everything else Eames does.

“I never wanted to find you, Eames,” Arthur says in this exasperated, worn out tone. He’s so ready to just be done with Eames already. He doesn’t have the energy to deal with him anymore. “In case you’ve forgotten, it’s always been you who’s come to find me.”

“I don’t remember you ever protesting,” Eames points out, and it’s true, Arthur has probably never protested when Eames has come to find him, because with Eames comes the promise of sex and good food and Arthur doesn’t even care if that makes him sound shallow, but he likes it, okay? He likes it but he doesn’t like Eames; it’s just a matter of priorities and right now, Eames is offering him nothing he’d particularly like, so Arthur wants nothing to do with him.

Arthur scowls. “I never asked for you to find me,” Arthur repeats. “I’d like it if you’d just let me be.”

Eames chuckles. “Well, contrary to popular belief, I didn’t actually come here today for the sole purpose of running into you,” he says believably enough, but Arthur doesn’t buy it.

“So you had no idea that I had any connection whatsoever to these kids?” Arthur asks flatly. It comes out sounding more like a statement than anything, though.

“Oh, of course I did,” Eames says. “But that’s not the point. I came here to pick up my daughter, and that’s that.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Arthur wants to know.

“That I had a daughter,” Eames asks, just to make sure, just to bother Arthur a little more, “Or that I knew all along my daughter was best friends with Phillipa Cobb?”

“Both,” Arthur says, “Everything. I asked you why you were here so much, in Los Angeles, when you hardly ever stayed in one place long enough to call it home. You never answered me. Why?”

Eames shrugs. “It didn’t seem relevant,” he says.

“Didn’t seem relevant,” Arthur repeats, incredulous. “Didn’t seem relevant? What do you mean it didn’t seem relevant?”

Eames shrugs again. “It just didn’t,” he says. “And besides, you’re a Point Man, the best Point Man; isn’t it your job to know these things?”

Arthur grinds his teeth together. The thing is, it is his job to know these things, it is and he knows it, but he didn’t know this and he’s not about to admit to Eames that it didn’t show up in the research. He doesn’t want Eames to know how much time he’s put into digging up Eames’ past, how none of this, not Los Angeles, not the daughter, the sister, not even the name Jack, which Arthur knows now is Eames’ first name because Rory mentioned it once or twice in passing and Arthur has an excellent memory – none if it showed up. He doesn’t want to admit failure, least of all to Eames.

“Shut up,” Arthur snaps, not caring how childish that makes him sound.

Eames smirks. He has the audacity to fucking smirk and Arthur feels his blood boil. He shoves Eames’ chest.

“Take your daughter and get out,” he says quietly, dangerously.

Eames raises his eyebrows at Arthur. “I don’t think that’s exactly your call,” he says. “This isn’t your house after all.”

And then Arthur feels Eames hand sliding down his back, and since when did they get so close together, anyways? Arthur’s face begins to flush and he hates it, he hates it so much because he never blushes, never, and here Eames is, making his cheeks burn with just one touch like he’s still in fucking high school. It’s just that it’s been so long, Arthur reasons with himself, it’s just that it’s been a long time since he’s last seen Eames, that it’s been a long time since he last felt Eames. It doesn’t mean a thing; it doesn’t, and if Eames ever tries to say otherwise, Arthur promises himself that he’ll punch Eames in the face.

Eames’ hand comes to a rest at the small of Arthur’s back and Arthur can feel Eames’ fingers pushing against the gun Arthur always keeps tucked safely away just in case, making it dig into his back.

“Still keeping ourselves armed, I see,” Eames murmurs, his breath hot against Arthur’s skin. Arthur catches himself leaning subconsciously into Eames and quickly stops himself before he gets too close. Eames smirks and Arthur can almost feel Eames’ lips brush against his own as he next speaks, “I’ll let you be, then. Don’t think getting a bullet in my head is a good way to end the day.”

And then he’s gone and Arthur feels cold. He scowls and crosses his arms. Eames smiles one last time at Arthur and there it is again, that look that seems almost sad but Arthur is sure it’s all fake, and he leaves, taking Blythe along with him. Phillipa shouts goodbye to her friend and then runs back over to Arthur, jumping up on the couch and climbing into his lap.

“I like Blythe’s daddy,” she says.

Arthur doesn’t trust himself to speak without cussing out the poor girl, so he just settles for a tight, close-mouthed smile and hopes that’s enough for her.