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"Three more bites," Eames says, raising his eyebrows sternly. "Three more big big bites."
"One more bite," Margaret bargains, "one more little little bite."
Arthur spears more lettuce on his fork and keeps his peace, having learned the hard way that getting between two people as stubborn as his husband and his daughter can only lead to tragedy for himself. Bizarre as it is that Eames has turned out to be the disciplinarian of the household, Arthur has always excelled at providing back-up as needed, professionally and personally. In this case, that means keeping his damn mouth shut.
"If you wish to be excused from the dinner table," Eames says, "it's three more bites of macaroni. No arguing."
Margaret emits a short little sigh that Arthur recognizes as one of his own mannerisms, picks up her fork, and extracts a single macaroni elbow from the small serving on her plate, brings it to her mouth, and nibbles at a corner. "My tummy is full, full, full," she says, once she's chewed and swallowed. She flattens one small hand over the round of her still-babyish belly to emphasize her point.
"I'm being generous when I count that as one bite," Eames answers, unimpressed. "Two more, and then you may be excused."
"I'm full up to my shoulders," Margaret says, shaking her head with wonder at her own fullness, her puff-ball pigtails wiggling a little. "I'm full down, down, down to my bottom."
"That is full," Arthur chimes in helplessly, trying not to laugh too obviously. She's just so fucking cute and earnest and full of bullshit, if not macaroni.
Eames shoots a glare at Arthur, even though his own mouth is twitching. "Two more bites," he says, "or else stay at the table and keep us company."
Margaret makes a sad little moan and drops her fork to her plate with a clatter, folds her arms across her chest and pushes out her bottom lip. It shouldn't work; it's blatant emotional manipulation, and Arthur's learned to resist the best. He can't help the pitiful flip of his heart, though. Maybe she really is full. Maybe they're being unfair, forcing her to eat. Maybe this is going to give her issues about food and turn her into a disordered teen with body dysmorphia who lobbies them for liposuction as a sweet sixteen gift. "Eames," Arthur says quietly, trying to communicate his abrupt panic with a meaningful look.
"Daddy and I would really like it if you sat up properly and ate like a big girl," Eames says, ignoring Arthur's expression. "Come on, Mags, Daddy's just back from his trip. Let's have a pleasant meal, please."
"Hmph!” says Margaret, unmoved, and turns her little pouting face away from both of them.
"God deliver me from the fucking fours," Eames mutters very quietly, which is the phrase they'd coined after they'd safely weathered the terrible twos and the frightful threes and found themselves in yet more aggravating parenting territory. "She's been a nightmare, an utter"—
—"I'm giving you the kick," Arthur interjects, throwing Eames a small worried smile. "If you want it."
Eames scrubs a hand over his face and heaves a sigh, then pushes back from the table. "I'll be in the garden if I'm needed," he says. "Make sure she brushes her teeth."
Margaret forgets to pout as Eames leaves the room, looking after him with surprise and then over at Arthur. "Why is Baba leaving the dinner table?" she asks, unfolding her arms, kicking her little legs out from her chair.
"He's been excused," Arthur says grimly. "One more big big bite, and then we'll go see what's in my suitcase."
Margaret sits up bolt straight and vibrates with excitement, so worked up that she forgets to be precious with her fork and shovels a huge mouthful of macaroni into her mouth, chews and swallows and chases it down with half her cup of milk. "Now can we go see?" she asks, swiping her forearm over her mouth, brown eyes wide and fists clenched.
"Use your napkin," Arthur says, reaching across to do it for her. "Food doesn't go on clothes."
"Now, now, now?" she asks, already sliding down from her chair, almost dancing with anticipation.
"Yes, now, now, now," Arthur repeats, dabbing his own mouth and throwing his napkin to the table. "Race you."
The suitcase is open on the bed, half-unpacked already from where Arthur had been working on it before Margaret skipped in the front door, fresh from play group, shrieking for Arthur and shoving construction paper art in his face for his admiration. Margaret wastes no time now, bounds up onto the bed like a puppy and crawls over to it, knees into it, tossing Arthur's folded clothing aside. Arthur should scold her, slow her down, but he can't; they don't spoil her, as a rule, so a little excitement over a small gift isn't the end of the world.
"Legos!" she yells, pulling out the box. "Daddy, look, Legos!"
"I know, sweetie," Arthur says, "I'm the one who bought them for you. What is it, can you tell from the picture?"
"It's a rocket ship!" she shouts, and bounds to her feet with the box clutched against her chest, bouncing a little on the mattress. "For going to space!"
Arthur grins at her. "I thought you'd like that," he says, and holds out an arm, beckoning her.
She comes over willingly enough, made affectionate and pliant by the application of new toys, and drops down into Arthur's lap before snuggling up against him. Arthur indulges himself for a moment, dropping his nose into the part of her hair, taking a sniff of her baby shampoo, pulling her warm heavy body into his side. Her legs go on forever, it seems. Her hands are losing the dimples at the knuckles. Arthur takes a second to hate every minute he's spent away from her the last two weeks.
"You're driving Baba up the wall," he tells her. "You know, it's hard for him, too, when I'm away."
"Can we make the space ship?" she asks, oblivious.
"Later," Arthur says. "Listen to me right now."
Margaret turns the box around and studies the back, patient. "Okay."
"I think it would be nice if you went out to the garden with the Legos and asked Baba to help you put it together," Arthur suggests.
"No, I want you to do it, Daddy,” she complains. "Baba isn't good at Legos."
"Baba is good at lots of things," Arthur equivocates, even though she's right — Eames sucks at Legos. "And he can go slow and let you help. Daddy never waits for you, right?"
"No," says Margaret, "you go fast and fast and don't share." She reaches up and pats his cheek in a gentle reprimand. "Remember with the bus Legos, when you made me sad and I cried?"
"Yeah, it was a shining moment for me as a father," Arthur says drily.
Everything's a negotiation with Margaret — Eames and Arthur each blame the other for this trait — and so it takes a little talking to convince Margaret to set the toy aside for a while, to instead cuddle up on the big master bed (just this once, normally there's a rule against that) and read some stories on Arthur's iPad, play a couple of really low-scoring rounds of Angry Birds where Margaret mostly flings the birds backwards off the slingshot and Arthur practices not being a perfectionist about everything and micromanaging her into winning the level.
"Okay," says Arthur finally, "that's probably a long enough time-out for Baba. Off you go."
Arthur watches Margaret race off with the box rattling in her arms. Her tights don't match her outfit. Arthur's never sure if Eames does that on purpose to annoy Arthur, or if Eames is truly as incompetent with children's clothing as he is with following the Lego assembly diagrams. It doesn't matter, either way, Arthur supposes; Eames will go on dressing her badly in Arthur's absence.
He detours through the kitchen and clears the table, wraps the leftovers for consumption after Margaret's asleep, probably after he and Eames have had some naked reunion time. The dishes go in the sink for Joy's attention in the morning, and the food into the fridge that bears three pieces of Margaret's artwork that Arthur's never seen before. These are the things that he missed: wobbly purple marker renderings of princesses and astronauts, all with what seem to be disturbingly accurate genitalia. Arthur studies them for a minute, amused. Then he uncorks a bottle of South African shiraz and pours two rather generous glasses, takes them out to the back garden.
Eames has the Legos spread out over the cement patio, having opened all the bags at once like the Lego idiot he is, and now he's frowning at the booklet and pawing through the pieces while Margaret busily stacks blocks and fixes the little astronaut to the top of each creation, making whoosh sounds as the chunks of plastic fly through the warm night air. "Thanks for this," Eames says, not looking up, trying to fiddle two pieces together that obviously don't go together. Arthur takes the pieces and replaces them with the stem of a wineglass. "Oh," Eames says, blinking and focussing, then beaming at Arthur. "Cheers."
Arthur clinks glasses with Eames and gets down on the cement next to him. "You want the piece with the flange like this," he tells Eames, and pulls it from the rubble. "The white one."
"How do you even know that?" Eames asks, sitting back and redirecting his gaze at Margaret.
"It's obvious," Arthur says, and snaps three more pieces onto it. "Look at the picture on the box."
"How about you do it," Eames says, "and I'll look on in admiration? She's not paying attention anyway."
Arthur drinks wine and assembles a rocket ship and pauses to applaud as needed when Margaret runs off into the darkness of the lawn and executes a series of lopsided somersaults. Eames drinks and makes himself a Lego codpiece which he disassembles with bad grace when Arthur needs the parts. "Thanks," Eames says, as Arthur puts the last pieces onto the rocket. "For the kick."
"Thanks for," Arthur begins, and can't think of a way to finish. For being the one who stays home most often? For being the one whose patience is tried, the one who has to keep track of Margaret's nutrition and her table manners while Arthur is off teaching executives how to dream up bigger guns? "Thanks," he revises slowly, and sets the rocket ship down, reaches over and pulls Eames in for a kiss.
"Mm," Eames says appreciatively, moving towards Arthur, kissing back.
"Next time you can be the one to go away," Arthur says when they break apart.
"How about we both stay put for a while?" Eames answers, fingers flirting gently with the short hairs at the nape of Arthur's neck. "That would be better."
"Right, okay," Arthur says, hearing himself a little dazed; Eames can still do that to him, which isn't fair. He's almost made up his mind to pull Eames in for another kiss when he's dealt a glancing blow on the shoulder and Margaret zooms past yelling you're it, you're it! and Arthur has no choice but to clamber a little tipsily to his feet and give chase. He's it.