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White Picket Fences drabbles

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Eames sleeps deeply for a few glorious hours, sated from the slow, but passionate, roll in the hay with Arthur. They hadn’t wanted to wake the children, and they were both utterly exhausted from the previous day’s chaos, but they needed to touch and connect in that way after they’d nearly lost each other. Afterwards, Eames didn’t make a conscious decision to sleep, but rather passed out face-down on the bed—most likely a drooling, snoring mess. 

At some point, he’d had the good sense to pull his boxers back on, and it was a good thing too because around three in the morning, he feels a pair of small hands pushing at his shoulder. Eames grumbles a bit, and when he cracks his eyes open, he sees Max standing beside the nightstand.

"Can I sleep with you?" Max whispers.  

Eames rolls onto his back and then pats the space between him and Arthur to indicate permission. “Sure, ducky, c’mon,” he rasps, half-awake and dehydrated. 

Max is probably too old to keep sleeping with them, but after all the sprogs have been through, Eames isn’t about to adopt the facade of a parental authority figure. One more night in bed with his parents probably won’t permanently warp the boy.

Arthur stirs when Max climbs onto the bed, and though he probably isn’t fully awake, he throws his arm around the boy and pulls him to his chest. Max goes readily, nuzzling against his father’s chest. Eames watches a moment, happy and content, and then he promptly drops off again.

He sleeps maybe twenty minutes before another pair of tiny hands shove at his back. When he looks up, he expects to see Max again—maybe waking him for some food or a glass of water, but instead he sees Jack.

"Why does Max get to sleep with you and I don’t?" he asks, brow furrowed in consternation. 

Eames blinks dumbly because he really wasn’t expecting a pop quiz at—Eames squints at the bedside alarm clock—3:30 A.M. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to actually answer that question, or point out that Max has bad dreams whereas Jack has always been fine sleeping on his own, but he doubts the boy is actually looking for a rational conversation. Instead, he pulls back the blankets and pats the spot between Max and himself. When Jack climbs into bed beside him, Eames smoothes his hair back from his brow and kisses his forehead.

He can still get a few hours of sleep before the kids will wake him demanding breakfast. 

He can still get a few more hours.

Of course, he should have known that was a foolish dream. Half an hour later, he hears the soft voice of his daughter. “Dad….daddy….daddy,” she chants until Eames opens his eyes and looks up at her.

"Yes, my sweet treasure?" he asks because, right, the children have been traumatized and will probably be a little co-dependent for a while. He looks over to Arthur and sees he’s buried under their boys—Max draped across his stomach, and Jack curled at his side. 

"Is there room for me?" Rose asks, and Eames pulls her into the bed without hesitation, causing her to erupt in giggles.

"There’s always room for you," he whispers and rolls her so she’s resting in the middle of the bed and Eames is nearly hanging off the edge. Ah, well. It’s just one night. Eames glances at the clock again and then rests his face close to his daughter’s on the pillow. "You want pancakes in the morning?"

Rose grins. “Chocolate chip?”

"Whatever you want," he whispers and kisses the tip of her nose.

They sleep like that in a great pile until the sun rises, and as predicted, Max wakes him with requests for food and juice. Eames can’t even be annoyed at the early hour or his lack of sleep because his family is reunited. They’ll have breakfast in the kitchen and the room will be a cacophony of voices, but all the noise will fade the moment he looks across the table and Arthur smiles at him.