FIC: Say It Right [Eames/Arthur kid!fic/marriage!fic] Part 4
Dom gets there almost half an hour later, tapping lightly against the door with his knuckles. Arthur and Eames have spent the better part of that time on opposite sides of the room, half-dozing, but far too aware of one another to relax. There is too much left unsaid between them, unresolved, and the only thing really keeping them afloat is the fact that they are here in the first place for Emily, who needs them both right now, whether or not they’re ready to deal with each other. So Arthur is more than a little relieved when Dom pushes the door open, ever-so-gently, and offers him a tired smile.
“Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. I called in a favor from Mal’s mother so I wouldn’t have to leave the kids alone.” He says, in Eames’s direction this time - and in the other corner of the room Eames shifts in his chair, grunts no worries, mate, even though Arthur knows he’d rather their fearless leader not be there. If today were any other day, Arthur would have found this jealousy of his husband’s endearing - he always had - but now he isn’t quite sure what to make of it. Isn’t sure he really wants to delve into it right now.
So he stands to meet Dom’s handshake and ignores Eames’s eyes following his every movement, tries to convey with his eyes to the man who’d taken him under his wing when he was young, how much he’d needed him to be here and how happy he is that he was able to come through. It’s a lot to try to get across without words, but he can tell the older man gets it, because he always does.
Still, he can’t help but feel a little bit guilty when he notices the circles under his eyes.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called you so late.”
“It’s no big deal. It’s not like I don’t owe you any favors.” He says this as if he means to say, you’re stupid to think otherwise, and Arthur steps aside so that he can lean toward the bed and give Emily’s hand a gentle squeeze. “She’ll be fine, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Eames butts in before Arthur can respond. The sound is gravelly, drowsy. “That’s what they’re saying.”
Dom nods as if yes, he’d already known this forever, then straightens up and fixes his eyes on Arthur’s face. He stares for so long and so intently that after a minute Arthur’s ears begin to burn. When he does speak again, the authority in his voice leaves no room for discussion.
“We have to talk, Arthur. And I’d prefer it if we could do it outside.”
He’s already at the door by the time he’s finished, a hand on the doorknob, his head turned over his shoulder in his direction, waiting. Arthur recognizes this urgency, doesn’t question it because he never did before and isn’t about to start; it’s comforting, at least, to be able to fall into this role while all the other patterns of his life have become intimidating and new. He turns to Eames and asks, with his hesitation, if it would be alright, and Eames, alert enough to read these signals, motions vaguely with a hand for him to go.
Dom leads him down the hall, through the hospital and Arthur quickly realizes that when he’d said, outside, he’d really meant, outside. When they get there, Dom grabs his elbow and pulls him far enough away from the glass double doors so that they aren’t in anyone’s way, and doesn’t let go until he’s got Arthur leaning against the wall, the concrete cool on his back through his t-shirt.
“Isn’t this a bit excessive? We could have talked in the lobby.”
“Shut up, Arthur,” Dom says good-naturedly while he fishes in his jean pocket for a pack of cigarettes, a brand Arthur doesn’t recognize - newly bought from the looks of it - hangs a stick between his lips and lights it up. Arthur watches him the entire time, nostalgic; thinks back to when they were young and this was a nightly ritual between them, sharing cigarettes while they told stories and jokes and ranted about whatever job was stressing them out at the time. Back then, they had both been heavy smokers, but Dom quit the habit once Philippa was born and, because Dom was his best friend, Arthur had had no choice but to kick it too.
These days, it’s something they do when they’re about to have Very Important Conversations, and during these conversations Arthur is expected to bare his soul. It’s not so much a habit anymore as an icebreaker, a symbol of trust. When the smoke is snaking from Dom’s nostrils and he passes him the stick, Arthur takes it between his thumb and forefinger, brings it to his lips, inhales.
The older man is watching the street when he speaks next, but Arthur is still watching him.
“So what is it, Arthur? What the hell’s going on between you two that you’d call me before him for something like this?” He hesitates, then adds with an edge, “Did he do something to hurt you?”
Arthur looks away then, toward the sky. This isn’t something he wants to think about anymore, even less wants to talk about, but he knows that if he doesn’t speak, Dom will think the worst of the situation, and Arthur feels something constrict inside of him at the thought of Eames taking the brunt of Dom’s anger for something he didn’t do.
“No. I mean, he didn’t mean to, I think.”
Dom looks skeptical. It isn’t enough, so Arthur sighs and presses the back of his head against the wall, buys himself a little time by taking another drag while he organizes his thoughts, steadies his nerves.
“This morning, I woke up…” He stops, starts over. “You know we retired before we adopted Emily. After the Fischer job, it just, I don’t know. It felt too dangerous, and we wanted to be there to see her grow up. To raise her.” The breeze picks up and it feels good against his skin. He breathes it in. “We’d packed all our work stuff in the attic. Old files, blueprints, formulas. Our totems. It seemed like the best thing to do. We thought that someday when Emily was older, we’d show her these things and share that part of us with her. But we wanted to be able to see her become old enough.”
He pauses to listen to the other man’s feet shuffling against the cement, passes him the cigarette and waits a second more.
“Things haven’t been good between us these past few months. I don’t really know what it is, but it’s just been…heavy. We can go a whole day without saying a word to each other. He’s so restless, lately, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.” This is the most embarrassing part of this whole conversation, Arthur thinks, just admitting he’s noticed any of this, admitting he cares. They didn’t even do wedding vows, because it just isn’t who they are. But to suddenly care about any of this, and to care so much - this revelation leaves him confused, fidgeting.
“I found him in the attic this morning, just sitting there on the floor in front of all of our old stuff with his totem in his hand. He was staring at it like, shit, like he was waiting for it to give him answers. Like he was in pain just looking at it, and I don’t know what came over me but all of a sudden I wanted to scream at him. I felt-“
Betrayed, he doesn’t let himself say, but the implication is in the edge in his voice.
“So I said things to him…and he said things back, and then I screamed things at him and he screamed things back. And then he said he was tired of living this way, and then he left. The end.”
An ambulance siren wails off in the distance. Beside him, Dom hums around the cigarette thoughtfully and Arthur is afraid to look. So instead he watches people come and go, nods politely to a young redhead holding sunflowers, wonders why she’s here so late, who she’s visiting. Finally, Dom chuckles; this time Arthur can’t help but look.
“So that’s it, huh?”
The corners of his lips curl up knowingly. There are small wrinkles at the ends of his eyes. He looks too amused for Arthur’s liking, and the smirk stretches when the younger man scowls, self-conscious.
“It isn’t easy, is it? Once you have kids, there’s no real going back. No only meeting up to fuck. No running away to Mombasa for a year. You start to realize you have to work things out like adults.” Dom nods at his own assessment, purses his lips for a moment. “It happened to me and Mal too. It happens to everyone.”
“You make it sound so easy, Dom.”
Arthur waits for a response but gets none, and Dom has a faraway look in his eyes like maybe he isn’t listening right then. Arthur shakes his head and pulls the cigarette from between his fingers, brushes it against his lips but doesn’t suck. Just leaves it there, a reassuring weight. Just when Arthur starts to think he isn’t going to say anything else, he does, and the sound of his voice after all that silence almost makes him jump.
“Mal and I weren’t able to let it go either. That’s why we did what we did. That’s why what happened, happened. Our problem was we didn’t find a balance, couldn’t separate work from play.” Dom snorts out a laugh, but there’s a bitterness to it that makes Arthur regret ever bringing any of this up. The feeling’s gone, though, when Dom shifts just a little bit closer and bumps shoulders with him, as if to say, stay with me, now.
The words come out faster than Arthur can think about what he’s saying, except he knows exactly what he’s saying. “You know what the difference between you two and us is? You and Mal didn't just love each other sometimes. Even when things were bad you never stopped loving each other.”
At first it feels like he’s just said the most profound thing any person could say, his pulse racing, mind racing. But then he looks at Dom and the older man is staring at him the way you might stare at a child who’s just said something profoundly… stupid.
“Yeah, that’s why you married him, right?” Is all he says on the matter.
They settle into an easy silence after that, passing the cigarette, now halfway gone, back and forth, until it’s only a few centimeters short of burning their fingers. There are a lot of things Arthur wants to say, but he can’t seem to get the words past his lips. He wants to ask how Philippa is doing, how James is doing. Wants to plan a playdate for the kids. Instead, he says thanks, but doesn’t offer reasons. Dom doesn’t say anything until he’s tossed the cigarette onto the cement and has crushed it underneath his heel.
“I wasn’t gonna tell you so soon but now’s better than ever, I guess. I’m going back to work. I think I’ve found my balance. You do with this information whatever you’d like. I just thought you should know.”
“Okay.” He says, and thinks he understands.
“You and Eames should go home and rest. Don’t worry about Emily, I’ll be here.”
Arthur wants to object, but the look Dom gives him as he passes him on the way back in leaves no room for argument. So he follows, secretly relishing in the idea of rest. Eames is sleeping when they return, and Arthur shakes him gently by the shoulder while Dom takes a seat by the bed, whispers wake up, let’s go home.
He is met with slight confusion, a groggy mumble, but it passes quickly and soon Eames, unsurprisingly receptive to the word home, is on his feet and kissing Emily’s cheek goodnight, making room so Arthur can do the same. They make Dom promise to call them as soon as she wakes up, or if he gets too tired to stay, to which he rolls his eyes and says go, just go already! and only then do they leave.
Part Five