Eames is tempted to burst through the door and proclaim to Arthur what a shit day he has had. Their mark is more heavily protected than they had previously thought and, instead of running into him, Eames had run into the fists of his security detail. He has a black eye and a split lip and a sore spot on his torso where one of the goons had managed to kick him.
He's tempted but it's late, and Leora (because she is the light of their lives) should be asleep by now or Arthur will be trying to put her to sleep, so he refrains.
The house is dark but there's a light on upstairs. Eames doesn't know why he does this but he doesn't turn on the lights, tiptoes through the house. Really, he's just asking for a bullet between the eyes - Arthur has become, if anything, more alert and trigger-happy since Leora came into their lives, his shoot-first, ask-questions-later tendencies coupling with his fierce desire to protect their daughter - but something compels him to creep upstairs all the same.
The only light comes from the nursery, the yellow tint of the dimmed bulb casting strange shadows on the walls. Arthur's back is to the open door and he has that angora baby sling Bubbie Shanya knit for him, for Leora, for Eames.
"The city is made of light," Arthur is saying, "and it pulses with life. The sky is bright, blinding blue and the clouds are white and fluffy. You have wings, Leora, wings that grow from your back, made of feathers and wind and freedom."
Arthur shifts his weight rhythmically from side to side as he murmurs a story of aching beauty. Leora shifts in her sling and yawns, lets out a sleepy baby-murmur and Arthur laughs softly, bends his head and brushes his nose through the black fuzz on the top of her head.
"You'll never be held back to the ground, Le," he whispers. "You'll soar with wings like an eagle's, and you'll make friends with the clouds, sit on the moon and touch the stars."
Eames leans against the doorjamb and watches, hardly daring to breathe for fear of disturbing this perfect, perfect moment. It's a shame that Leora cannot see the world her daddy has imagined for her, a shame that she's too young and too new to understand the possibilities of Arthur's dreams. When she's older, perhaps, Arthur will tell this story again, and she will delight in it as they delight in her.
"Hey, you," Arthur says, looking up at him.
"You heard me, then?" he asks, walking into the room.
Arthur raises an eyebrow at him, clearly asking if he's surprised. Eames chuckles.
"Of course you did," he says, shaking his head. "My Arthur, with the hearing of an owl."
"No, you just walk like an elephant," Arthur retorts, amusement coloring his tone. "Leora, say goodnight to your papa."
Her face lights up when she sees him, her mouth curving into a smile that looks like Arthur's. For all she isn't their daughter, she is exactly their daughter. He touches her chubby cheek and she grabs at his finger, her hand so little compared to his.
"Goodnight, beautiful," Eames whispers, bending down to brush a butterfly kiss to her forehead. She sighs happily and nuzzles into it.
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Date: 2011-03-18 03:08 am (UTC)Eames is tempted to burst through the door and proclaim to Arthur what a shit day he has had. Their mark is more heavily protected than they had previously thought and, instead of running into him, Eames had run into the fists of his security detail. He has a black eye and a split lip and a sore spot on his torso where one of the goons had managed to kick him.
He's tempted but it's late, and Leora (because she is the light of their lives) should be asleep by now or Arthur will be trying to put her to sleep, so he refrains.
The house is dark but there's a light on upstairs. Eames doesn't know why he does this but he doesn't turn on the lights, tiptoes through the house. Really, he's just asking for a bullet between the eyes - Arthur has become, if anything, more alert and trigger-happy since Leora came into their lives, his shoot-first, ask-questions-later tendencies coupling with his fierce desire to protect their daughter - but something compels him to creep upstairs all the same.
The only light comes from the nursery, the yellow tint of the dimmed bulb casting strange shadows on the walls. Arthur's back is to the open door and he has that angora baby sling Bubbie Shanya knit for him, for Leora, for Eames.
"The city is made of light," Arthur is saying, "and it pulses with life. The sky is bright, blinding blue and the clouds are white and fluffy. You have wings, Leora, wings that grow from your back, made of feathers and wind and freedom."
Arthur shifts his weight rhythmically from side to side as he murmurs a story of aching beauty. Leora shifts in her sling and yawns, lets out a sleepy baby-murmur and Arthur laughs softly, bends his head and brushes his nose through the black fuzz on the top of her head.
"You'll never be held back to the ground, Le," he whispers. "You'll soar with wings like an eagle's, and you'll make friends with the clouds, sit on the moon and touch the stars."
Eames leans against the doorjamb and watches, hardly daring to breathe for fear of disturbing this perfect, perfect moment. It's a shame that Leora cannot see the world her daddy has imagined for her, a shame that she's too young and too new to understand the possibilities of Arthur's dreams. When she's older, perhaps, Arthur will tell this story again, and she will delight in it as they delight in her.
"Hey, you," Arthur says, looking up at him.
"You heard me, then?" he asks, walking into the room.
Arthur raises an eyebrow at him, clearly asking if he's surprised. Eames chuckles.
"Of course you did," he says, shaking his head. "My Arthur, with the hearing of an owl."
"No, you just walk like an elephant," Arthur retorts, amusement coloring his tone. "Leora, say goodnight to your papa."
Her face lights up when she sees him, her mouth curving into a smile that looks like Arthur's. For all she isn't their daughter, she is exactly their daughter. He touches her chubby cheek and she grabs at his finger, her hand so little compared to his.
"Goodnight, beautiful," Eames whispers, bending down to brush a butterfly kiss to her forehead. She sighs happily and nuzzles into it.
"Sweet dreams."