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Eames hopes there’s never another occasion he’ll have to see Arthur in all black. It’s a stunning picture, of course. He’s sleek and sharp as ever, still perfectly poised while Pippa clutches his hand on one side and James hiccups against his neck. But there’s something violently dark about it, too violent and harsh for the memorial of such a lovely woman. It’s as though he dressed to honor the way she died, instead of the way she lived.
Eames stands in the back, slipping in just as the ceremony is starting. He knows Dom won’t be there, he had to skip out of town as quickly as possible. Arthur made the arrangements for her service and interment. He’s the only father figure the children have now and he takes it in stride. He never stops moving his hand along James’ spine where he sits on his lap and squeezes Pippa’s hand at regular intervals to remind her that he’s there. He remains grave-faced and stoic through the entire ceremony. He declines speaking. Mal’s father delivers the eulogy.
He knows Arthur sees him when the ceremony ends. It’s possible Eames brushed into his radius as he attempted to slip out around the crowd of mourners, or it may just be that Arthur was looking for him. Arthur catches his eye and for just a moment, the barest second, Eames sees his armor crack. A flicker of devastation. A sudden jolt of utter despair. And the briefest flash of thankfulness. He nods to him. Eames nods back. Arthur bends to lift James into his arms and Eames leaves.
After he’s sure everyone has left the grave site, he goes to pay respects in his own way. He picks through the flowers littering the grass and places a nondescript wooden box at the top of her simple headstone. He expects someone will steal it. There’s nothing valuable in it, though. Just an old poker chip, worn smooth from age and a constant nervous tick of running his fingers over it.