[Fic + Art] How to Love a Mocking Bird
Title: How to Love a Mocking Bird
Author: sparkledark
Artist: red_rahl
Team: Romance
Prompt: Home
Word count: Approx. 2700
Rating: PG
Summary: How Eames learned to stop worrying and love the bird.
Warnings: There is nothing in this fic that requires a warning.
Thanks: To blaurosen for the beta and eleveninches for the bird puns.
Eames is not a bird person. He adores dogs and horses. Cats are all right, as are rabbits, hamsters, ferrets and pot bellied pigs. Really, anything of the mammalian variety is perfectly acceptable in his book. Fish are nice to look at, and he finds marsupials quite delightful. He’s not overly fond of reptiles, but at least they’re quiet. Birds are not quiet, nor are they delightful- they are loud, nasty and leave a seemingly endless stream of excrement in their wake. He cannot imagine for the life of him why anyone would want to own a bird, to have one of the wretched things as a pet, so when Arthur arrives at his doorstep in Mombasa with a valise and a parrot, the only word that comes to mind is “Why?”
“Why what?” Arthur asks.
Eames points to the squawking beast, flapping about inside the heavy black cage dangling from Arthur’s left hand. “Why that?” he asks.
Eames had been expecting pets, eventually. They seemed to be an inevitable addition to the sort of domestic package Arthur had recently developed a yen for, ever since Eames’ run in with a machete wielding Saudi prince.
"You could've lost a nut, jackass," Arthur had said. "I'm moving in, since you can't seem to take care of yourself."
It was as close to a declaration of love as Eames was ever likely to receive, so he'd jumped in with both feet, clearing out half his closet space and disposing of the expired food in his refrigerator- the last remaining vestiges of his long-standing bachelorhood.
He figured they’d find an animal to adopt at some point, a puppy or a goldfish or a bloody elephant, but this is sudden and this is a bird and Eames is confused.
“Oh,” Arthur says. “This is Chomsky.” Like he’s introducing a person.
“This bird is named Chomsky?”
“I got him when I was in college,” Arthur says. “I was a little bit pretentious back then.”
Under ordinary circumstances, Eames would make a clever quip in response to that, but these are not ordinary circumstances because Arthur is pushing past Eames, bringing the bird into the house and setting the cage directly in front of Eames’ favorite window, obstructing his view of the ocean. There are more pressing matters to discuss.
“You’ve had this bird since college?” Eames asks.
“Stop calling him ‘this bird’,” Arthur says. “He doesn’t like that.”
The bird makes a peculiar noise at that point, a woo woo sound, like a ghost.
“What the hell is that?” Eames asks.
“He makes all kinds of cool sounds,” Arthur says. “And he’s really smart. He can talk and do math.”
“This bird can do math?” Eames asks.
“Two plus three,” Arthur says.
“Two plus three is five. Two plus three is five,” the bird shrieks horribly.
“See, he’s better with numbers than you are,” Arthur says with an insufferable smirk.
And that is, apparently, that.
*
Chomsky is an African Grey parrot. He’s been living with Arthur’s mother since Arthur joined the criminal underworld, but now that he’s “settled down with a nice young man” (good lord), she’s decided to surrender custody. Chomsky was less than a year old when Arthur adopted him ten years ago, and African Grey parrots have a typical lifespan of fifty to sixty years, sometimes living to be as old as ninety. Eames certainly knows enough about numbers to calculate those odds- this fucking bird is probably going to outlive him, so if he wants to make it work with Arthur, he’d better get used to the blasted thing.
*
Chomsky doesn’t spend a lot of time in his cage. Arthur gives him pretty much free reign, and he’s frequently found roosting on the back of Eames’ sofa, or windowsills, or, horrifyingly, the kitchen counter. After a couple of days, Arthur sets up a series of branch-like perches for him throughout the living room and bedroom, so that the interior of Eames’ house begins to resemble the bowels of a tropical rainforest.
Once, Eames makes the mistake of leaving a drawer open with Chomsky on the loose. He comes out of his shower to find dozens of socks strewn about the floor, the furniture, and dangling from lampshades. Another time, he leaves his reading glasses on the dresser and finds them floating in the toilet bowl two hours later.
Thankfully, as far as Eames can tell, Chomsky relieves himself into the papers at the bottom of his cage and nowhere else, but Eames lives in perpetual fear of finding a bird turd at the bottom of his teacup someday.
“His cage is so small,” Arthur says when Eames lodges a complaint. “He needs room to stretch out.”
A week after Arthur moves in, the rest of his belongings arrive, including another, larger cage for Chomsky. This one is approximately the same size as Eames’ first flat in Brixton, and Eames hopes that this means Arthur will stop letting the bird roam wild, but the very same day the cage is erected, Chomsky flies into the bedroom and lands atop Eames’ back, digging his talons into Eames’ flesh and interrupting their previously fantastic sex with an indignant squawk.
“This is utterly unacceptable,” Eames says. Arthur just laughs.
*
Arthur likes to cuddle his bird. One day, Eames comes home to find him sprawled on the bed in his pajamas, holding Chomsky against his chest. Chomsky is making an odd, cooing sound and Arthur is cooing right back, scratching the back of his neck and calling him “Chom Chom.”
“I love you, Arthur!” the bird announces. “I love you, Arthur!”
“Love you too, Chommy,” Arthur says, and Eames feels his lunch beginning to regurgitate.
“I can’t believe you’ll snuggle with that filthy animal more than with me,” Eames says.
“Don’t worry,” Arthur says. “You’re still my favorite filthy animal.”
“Hmph,” says Eames.
He’s not jealous of a bloody parrot. He’s not.
Later that same day, Arthur goes for a run on the beach, leaving Eames and Chomsky to “bond”.
Eames isn’t sure what bonding with a parrot entails, so he just carries on with his business, chopping vegetables for supper and drinking heavily from a jug of cheap Chianti.
Chomski sits on one of his numerous perches near the kitchen and stares at him with a disagreeable frown. At least, it looks like a frown to Eames. Then he cocks his head to one side and starts making the oddest noise yet- something that sounds a bit like the ringtone on Eames’ Blackberry.
“You’re a very strange bird,” Eames says.
Chomsky tilts his head to the other side and lifts up a foot, then tilts it back and lifts the other foot. Then he starts bobbing his head up and down whilst making that ringing telephone sound.
“Are you dancing?” Eames asks.
It would almost be cute, perhaps even endearing, were it not for what happens next. Once the bird has finished his little phone-dance performance art (obviously a distraction technique) he swoops into the kitchen and steals half a green pepper right off the cutting board.
“Hey!” Eames shouts. “Bring that back!”
Chomsky flies the pilfered pepper over to his cage and drops it into his food dish, then looks at Eames with a mocking head-tilt.
“That was mine, you wanker,” Eames says.
“Bweeeep,” Chomsky says. Eames scowls.
*
“You guys really have a lot in common,” Arthur says, when Eames tells him about the incident later, over supper.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Eames asks.
“He was just playing, Eames. You don’t have to take it personally.”
“That bird hates me,” Eames insists.
Arthur sighs. “Is this about the bird or is this about me?” he asks.
“What?”
Arthur pokes at his food with his fork, looking uncharacteristically insecure and uncomfortable.
“I know you liked living alone...” he says.
“Now who’s taking things personally?” Eames asks.
He didn’t like living alone. He thought that it was a necessary condition, but now that he lives with Arthur, he’s realized how wretched it actually was. The bird is an irritant, it’s true, and it turns out that half of Eames’ closet space isn’t nearly enough to accommodate Arthur’s extensive wardrobe- he’s going to have to build another wing or something. Arthur’s a finicky eater, a restless sleeper, and he spends far more time cleaning his guns than Eames believes is strictly sane. But he’s Arthur, and he’s here and an Arthur-filled existence is far superior to one that’s Arthur-free.
He realizes suddenly that he’s still been referring to the house and all of its contents as his and his alone. My house, my bed, my antique furnishings that are being systematically destroyed by your bird, and so forth. Perhaps he hasn’t made enough of an effort to be welcoming, to Arthur or his bird. It makes Eames feel like a right knob to know that Arthur doesn’t realize how desperately he’s wanted here. After all the time and effort he’s expended to grab Arthur’s attention, to seduce him and win his trust- it’s rather pathetic that he can’t manage to show any appreciation now that he’s gotten everything he was after.
He wants to say all these things to Arthur, but can’t seem to force the words out of his throat.
He’s going to have to redouble his efforts with the bird.
*
There is one thing Chomsky and Eames do have in common: an impressive skill for mimicry. Chomsky can do convincing vocal impressions of all sorts of other animals- cats and dogs, horses and monkeys- and he can also impersonate people. He can make himself sound like Arthur’s mother, which is incredibly disturbing, and like Arthur himself, which is downright confusing.
One morning, whilst Eames is shaving, he thinks he hears Arthur calling from the bedroom.
“Eames, you asshole,” the voice says, and it’s not unusual for Arthur to say such a thing- it’s nearly a daily occurrence- so Eames just pokes his head out, ready to ask what he’s done this time. He’s surprised to find that Arthur’s still asleep, face down and snoring.
“Asshole,” the voice says again, and Eames peers past Arthur, out into the living room where Chomsky is staring belligerently from his cage.
Eames is only vaguely offended. Mostly he’s impressed that the bird can be taught to use foul language in an appropriate context. He wonders what else Chomsky might be capable of. He’d probably make a good accomplice for any number of misdeeds. If he can recognize numbers and colors, maybe Eames can train him to recognize a good hand in poker and send signals about it. If he can imitate voices, maybe Eames can teach him to speak with an English accent and confuse the hell out of Arthur.
Perhaps it is possible for them to co-exist happily, the way that Arthur wants.
“You and me, Chom, we’re going to be mates,” Eames tells the bird. “Even if it kills me.”
“Woooo,” says Chomsky.
“Woo indeed.”
*
When Arthur’s not working, he usually stays in bed till noon, so Eames has a lot of time in the mornings to research the skills and training methods of African Greys. He gets into the routine of setting his laptop on the kitchen table and viewing instructional materials with his breakfast, while Chomsky looks on curiously from his cage. Sometimes he’ll watch a video of another parrot, and Chom will start vigorously tweeting or bobbing around in response.
One morning, he’s making such a ruckus that Eames decides to let him out, and once he’s freed, Chom climbs onto Eames shoulder and perches there. They watch home videos of an African Grey named Einstein, talking in a lady’s voice about a variety of topics, and repeatedly sliding down his arc shaped perch with a fairly adorable “weeeeee” sound.
After a few minutes of this, Chom begins to imitate the sound, saying “weeeeee” into Eames’ ear.
Eames chuckles. “You are a clever thing, aren’t you,” he says.
“Good bird,” Chomsky says, in Arthur’s voice. “Pretty bird.” He twists his head around, back and forth in odd directions, then drops it and sort of nudges it towards Eames, a hint that he wants the back of his neck scratched. Eames has seen him gesture towards Arthur in this way a hundred times, but he’s never done it to Eames before.
He’s not supposed to touch the bird without putting sanitizer on his hands first, but Eames thinks that’s a bit of overkill considering he’s only just showered moments ago. He throws caution to the wind and scritches the back of Chom’s neck with his finger. Chom makes that weird Blackberry sound again and taps his foot on Eames’ shoulder.
“Yeah, you’re all right,” Eames says. And he is. Difficult, but worth the effort. Much like his owner.
Nearly a month later, Eames is finally ready for his grand presentation. He sits Arthur down on the sofa one rainy afternoon and brings Chom out of his cage, making sure to sanitize his hands thoroughly first.
He sets the bird on one of the living room perches and whistles at him. The sound, his first cue, causes Chom to start whistling himself- whistling the song that Eames taught him, “Oh Brittania”.
“Seriously?” Arthur asks.
“It gets better,” Eames tells him. “Dom Cobb,” he says to the bird.
“Bloody twat,” Chomsky replies, in a near perfect replication of Eames’ own voice and accent.
“Eames!” Arthur exclaims.
“What?”
“He can’t say twat. It’s offensive!”
“Well he’s not going to say it all the time. Just about Cobb.”
“Bloody twat,” Chomsky says again. “Woooo.”
“See?” Eames asks.
“You know Cobb’s still my friend,” Arthur says. “He might-”
“Bloody twat,” Chomsky interrupts, and Eames has to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing.
Arthur rubs his eyes. “This is horrifying.”
“All right, watch this,” Eames says. He’s got a deck of cards in his pocket and when he pulls out a king of hearts and shows it to Chom, Arthur peers cautiously from between his fingers.
Chom considers the card for a moment, tilting his head and stepping from one foot to the other. The suspense is almost too much for Eames. So far they’ve only managed to get this trick right a couple of times- usually Chom just tries to eat the card.
Finally, he lets out a definitive, high-pitched “eeee eeee” sound, the one they decided on for the royals.
“Good bird!” Eames says, and tosses him a piece of dried mango. He goes through a series of cards and gets a woop woop for the two, a clicking noise for the five, and a foot tap and feather ruffle for an ace, just as they’ve been practicing.
“You’re teaching my bird to help you gamble,” Arthur says flatly.
“I’m teaching him to help me cheat,” Eames clarifies. “Isn’t it brilliant?”
“It’s... something,” Arthur says.
“I thought you wanted us to bond,” Eames reminds him.
“I did. I- I do. It’s...” Arthur sighs and rubs his palms over his thighs. He looks at Eames and Eames tries his best to look earnest and a little pathetic. He doesn’t have to try very hard. It seems to work, because after a moment or two, Arthur’s disgruntled scowl turns into a warm, genuine smile, with full dimples. He even laughs a bit, and shakes his head. “Just don’t get my bird arrested, okay?”
“He’s our bird now, isn’t he?” Eames asks.
Arthur nods. “Yeah, I suppose that’s true.”
Eames brings Chomsky over to the couch and settles in next to Arthur. He holds the bird against his chest and drapes his arm round Arthur’s shoulders. Arthur scratches the back of Chom’s neck and leans in to kiss Eames softly on the mouth.
Eames has always fancied himself something of a lone wolf, but he figures even wolves mate up eventually. In fact, he's heard they mate for life. Maybe sometimes there are birds involved, too. Who's to say, really?
This might not be the exact domestic arrangement he’d been envisioning, but he can honestly say that he’s never felt more at home.
Author: sparkledark
Artist: red_rahl
Team: Romance
Prompt: Home
Word count: Approx. 2700
Rating: PG
Summary: How Eames learned to stop worrying and love the bird.
Warnings: There is nothing in this fic that requires a warning.
Thanks: To blaurosen for the beta and eleveninches for the bird puns.
Eames is not a bird person. He adores dogs and horses. Cats are all right, as are rabbits, hamsters, ferrets and pot bellied pigs. Really, anything of the mammalian variety is perfectly acceptable in his book. Fish are nice to look at, and he finds marsupials quite delightful. He’s not overly fond of reptiles, but at least they’re quiet. Birds are not quiet, nor are they delightful- they are loud, nasty and leave a seemingly endless stream of excrement in their wake. He cannot imagine for the life of him why anyone would want to own a bird, to have one of the wretched things as a pet, so when Arthur arrives at his doorstep in Mombasa with a valise and a parrot, the only word that comes to mind is “Why?”
“Why what?” Arthur asks.
Eames points to the squawking beast, flapping about inside the heavy black cage dangling from Arthur’s left hand. “Why that?” he asks.
Eames had been expecting pets, eventually. They seemed to be an inevitable addition to the sort of domestic package Arthur had recently developed a yen for, ever since Eames’ run in with a machete wielding Saudi prince.
"You could've lost a nut, jackass," Arthur had said. "I'm moving in, since you can't seem to take care of yourself."
It was as close to a declaration of love as Eames was ever likely to receive, so he'd jumped in with both feet, clearing out half his closet space and disposing of the expired food in his refrigerator- the last remaining vestiges of his long-standing bachelorhood.
He figured they’d find an animal to adopt at some point, a puppy or a goldfish or a bloody elephant, but this is sudden and this is a bird and Eames is confused.
“Oh,” Arthur says. “This is Chomsky.” Like he’s introducing a person.
“This bird is named Chomsky?”
“I got him when I was in college,” Arthur says. “I was a little bit pretentious back then.”
Under ordinary circumstances, Eames would make a clever quip in response to that, but these are not ordinary circumstances because Arthur is pushing past Eames, bringing the bird into the house and setting the cage directly in front of Eames’ favorite window, obstructing his view of the ocean. There are more pressing matters to discuss.
“You’ve had this bird since college?” Eames asks.
“Stop calling him ‘this bird’,” Arthur says. “He doesn’t like that.”
The bird makes a peculiar noise at that point, a woo woo sound, like a ghost.
“What the hell is that?” Eames asks.
“He makes all kinds of cool sounds,” Arthur says. “And he’s really smart. He can talk and do math.”
“This bird can do math?” Eames asks.
“Two plus three,” Arthur says.
“Two plus three is five. Two plus three is five,” the bird shrieks horribly.
“See, he’s better with numbers than you are,” Arthur says with an insufferable smirk.
And that is, apparently, that.
*
Chomsky is an African Grey parrot. He’s been living with Arthur’s mother since Arthur joined the criminal underworld, but now that he’s “settled down with a nice young man” (good lord), she’s decided to surrender custody. Chomsky was less than a year old when Arthur adopted him ten years ago, and African Grey parrots have a typical lifespan of fifty to sixty years, sometimes living to be as old as ninety. Eames certainly knows enough about numbers to calculate those odds- this fucking bird is probably going to outlive him, so if he wants to make it work with Arthur, he’d better get used to the blasted thing.
*
Chomsky doesn’t spend a lot of time in his cage. Arthur gives him pretty much free reign, and he’s frequently found roosting on the back of Eames’ sofa, or windowsills, or, horrifyingly, the kitchen counter. After a couple of days, Arthur sets up a series of branch-like perches for him throughout the living room and bedroom, so that the interior of Eames’ house begins to resemble the bowels of a tropical rainforest.
Once, Eames makes the mistake of leaving a drawer open with Chomsky on the loose. He comes out of his shower to find dozens of socks strewn about the floor, the furniture, and dangling from lampshades. Another time, he leaves his reading glasses on the dresser and finds them floating in the toilet bowl two hours later.
Thankfully, as far as Eames can tell, Chomsky relieves himself into the papers at the bottom of his cage and nowhere else, but Eames lives in perpetual fear of finding a bird turd at the bottom of his teacup someday.
“His cage is so small,” Arthur says when Eames lodges a complaint. “He needs room to stretch out.”
A week after Arthur moves in, the rest of his belongings arrive, including another, larger cage for Chomsky. This one is approximately the same size as Eames’ first flat in Brixton, and Eames hopes that this means Arthur will stop letting the bird roam wild, but the very same day the cage is erected, Chomsky flies into the bedroom and lands atop Eames’ back, digging his talons into Eames’ flesh and interrupting their previously fantastic sex with an indignant squawk.
“This is utterly unacceptable,” Eames says. Arthur just laughs.
*
Arthur likes to cuddle his bird. One day, Eames comes home to find him sprawled on the bed in his pajamas, holding Chomsky against his chest. Chomsky is making an odd, cooing sound and Arthur is cooing right back, scratching the back of his neck and calling him “Chom Chom.”
“I love you, Arthur!” the bird announces. “I love you, Arthur!”
“Love you too, Chommy,” Arthur says, and Eames feels his lunch beginning to regurgitate.
“I can’t believe you’ll snuggle with that filthy animal more than with me,” Eames says.
“Don’t worry,” Arthur says. “You’re still my favorite filthy animal.”
“Hmph,” says Eames.
He’s not jealous of a bloody parrot. He’s not.
Later that same day, Arthur goes for a run on the beach, leaving Eames and Chomsky to “bond”.
Eames isn’t sure what bonding with a parrot entails, so he just carries on with his business, chopping vegetables for supper and drinking heavily from a jug of cheap Chianti.
Chomski sits on one of his numerous perches near the kitchen and stares at him with a disagreeable frown. At least, it looks like a frown to Eames. Then he cocks his head to one side and starts making the oddest noise yet- something that sounds a bit like the ringtone on Eames’ Blackberry.
“You’re a very strange bird,” Eames says.
Chomsky tilts his head to the other side and lifts up a foot, then tilts it back and lifts the other foot. Then he starts bobbing his head up and down whilst making that ringing telephone sound.
“Are you dancing?” Eames asks.
It would almost be cute, perhaps even endearing, were it not for what happens next. Once the bird has finished his little phone-dance performance art (obviously a distraction technique) he swoops into the kitchen and steals half a green pepper right off the cutting board.
“Hey!” Eames shouts. “Bring that back!”
Chomsky flies the pilfered pepper over to his cage and drops it into his food dish, then looks at Eames with a mocking head-tilt.
“That was mine, you wanker,” Eames says.
“Bweeeep,” Chomsky says. Eames scowls.
*
“You guys really have a lot in common,” Arthur says, when Eames tells him about the incident later, over supper.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Eames asks.
“He was just playing, Eames. You don’t have to take it personally.”
“That bird hates me,” Eames insists.
Arthur sighs. “Is this about the bird or is this about me?” he asks.
“What?”
Arthur pokes at his food with his fork, looking uncharacteristically insecure and uncomfortable.
“I know you liked living alone...” he says.
“Now who’s taking things personally?” Eames asks.
He didn’t like living alone. He thought that it was a necessary condition, but now that he lives with Arthur, he’s realized how wretched it actually was. The bird is an irritant, it’s true, and it turns out that half of Eames’ closet space isn’t nearly enough to accommodate Arthur’s extensive wardrobe- he’s going to have to build another wing or something. Arthur’s a finicky eater, a restless sleeper, and he spends far more time cleaning his guns than Eames believes is strictly sane. But he’s Arthur, and he’s here and an Arthur-filled existence is far superior to one that’s Arthur-free.
He realizes suddenly that he’s still been referring to the house and all of its contents as his and his alone. My house, my bed, my antique furnishings that are being systematically destroyed by your bird, and so forth. Perhaps he hasn’t made enough of an effort to be welcoming, to Arthur or his bird. It makes Eames feel like a right knob to know that Arthur doesn’t realize how desperately he’s wanted here. After all the time and effort he’s expended to grab Arthur’s attention, to seduce him and win his trust- it’s rather pathetic that he can’t manage to show any appreciation now that he’s gotten everything he was after.
He wants to say all these things to Arthur, but can’t seem to force the words out of his throat.
He’s going to have to redouble his efforts with the bird.
*
There is one thing Chomsky and Eames do have in common: an impressive skill for mimicry. Chomsky can do convincing vocal impressions of all sorts of other animals- cats and dogs, horses and monkeys- and he can also impersonate people. He can make himself sound like Arthur’s mother, which is incredibly disturbing, and like Arthur himself, which is downright confusing.
One morning, whilst Eames is shaving, he thinks he hears Arthur calling from the bedroom.
“Eames, you asshole,” the voice says, and it’s not unusual for Arthur to say such a thing- it’s nearly a daily occurrence- so Eames just pokes his head out, ready to ask what he’s done this time. He’s surprised to find that Arthur’s still asleep, face down and snoring.
“Asshole,” the voice says again, and Eames peers past Arthur, out into the living room where Chomsky is staring belligerently from his cage.
Eames is only vaguely offended. Mostly he’s impressed that the bird can be taught to use foul language in an appropriate context. He wonders what else Chomsky might be capable of. He’d probably make a good accomplice for any number of misdeeds. If he can recognize numbers and colors, maybe Eames can train him to recognize a good hand in poker and send signals about it. If he can imitate voices, maybe Eames can teach him to speak with an English accent and confuse the hell out of Arthur.
Perhaps it is possible for them to co-exist happily, the way that Arthur wants.
“You and me, Chom, we’re going to be mates,” Eames tells the bird. “Even if it kills me.”
“Woooo,” says Chomsky.
“Woo indeed.”
*
When Arthur’s not working, he usually stays in bed till noon, so Eames has a lot of time in the mornings to research the skills and training methods of African Greys. He gets into the routine of setting his laptop on the kitchen table and viewing instructional materials with his breakfast, while Chomsky looks on curiously from his cage. Sometimes he’ll watch a video of another parrot, and Chom will start vigorously tweeting or bobbing around in response.
One morning, he’s making such a ruckus that Eames decides to let him out, and once he’s freed, Chom climbs onto Eames shoulder and perches there. They watch home videos of an African Grey named Einstein, talking in a lady’s voice about a variety of topics, and repeatedly sliding down his arc shaped perch with a fairly adorable “weeeeee” sound.
After a few minutes of this, Chom begins to imitate the sound, saying “weeeeee” into Eames’ ear.
Eames chuckles. “You are a clever thing, aren’t you,” he says.
“Good bird,” Chomsky says, in Arthur’s voice. “Pretty bird.” He twists his head around, back and forth in odd directions, then drops it and sort of nudges it towards Eames, a hint that he wants the back of his neck scratched. Eames has seen him gesture towards Arthur in this way a hundred times, but he’s never done it to Eames before.
He’s not supposed to touch the bird without putting sanitizer on his hands first, but Eames thinks that’s a bit of overkill considering he’s only just showered moments ago. He throws caution to the wind and scritches the back of Chom’s neck with his finger. Chom makes that weird Blackberry sound again and taps his foot on Eames’ shoulder.
“Yeah, you’re all right,” Eames says. And he is. Difficult, but worth the effort. Much like his owner.
Nearly a month later, Eames is finally ready for his grand presentation. He sits Arthur down on the sofa one rainy afternoon and brings Chom out of his cage, making sure to sanitize his hands thoroughly first.
He sets the bird on one of the living room perches and whistles at him. The sound, his first cue, causes Chom to start whistling himself- whistling the song that Eames taught him, “Oh Brittania”.
“Seriously?” Arthur asks.
“It gets better,” Eames tells him. “Dom Cobb,” he says to the bird.
“Bloody twat,” Chomsky replies, in a near perfect replication of Eames’ own voice and accent.
“Eames!” Arthur exclaims.
“What?”
“He can’t say twat. It’s offensive!”
“Well he’s not going to say it all the time. Just about Cobb.”
“Bloody twat,” Chomsky says again. “Woooo.”
“See?” Eames asks.
“You know Cobb’s still my friend,” Arthur says. “He might-”
“Bloody twat,” Chomsky interrupts, and Eames has to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing.
Arthur rubs his eyes. “This is horrifying.”
“All right, watch this,” Eames says. He’s got a deck of cards in his pocket and when he pulls out a king of hearts and shows it to Chom, Arthur peers cautiously from between his fingers.
Chom considers the card for a moment, tilting his head and stepping from one foot to the other. The suspense is almost too much for Eames. So far they’ve only managed to get this trick right a couple of times- usually Chom just tries to eat the card.
Finally, he lets out a definitive, high-pitched “eeee eeee” sound, the one they decided on for the royals.
“Good bird!” Eames says, and tosses him a piece of dried mango. He goes through a series of cards and gets a woop woop for the two, a clicking noise for the five, and a foot tap and feather ruffle for an ace, just as they’ve been practicing.
“You’re teaching my bird to help you gamble,” Arthur says flatly.
“I’m teaching him to help me cheat,” Eames clarifies. “Isn’t it brilliant?”
“It’s... something,” Arthur says.
“I thought you wanted us to bond,” Eames reminds him.
“I did. I- I do. It’s...” Arthur sighs and rubs his palms over his thighs. He looks at Eames and Eames tries his best to look earnest and a little pathetic. He doesn’t have to try very hard. It seems to work, because after a moment or two, Arthur’s disgruntled scowl turns into a warm, genuine smile, with full dimples. He even laughs a bit, and shakes his head. “Just don’t get my bird arrested, okay?”
“He’s our bird now, isn’t he?” Eames asks.
Arthur nods. “Yeah, I suppose that’s true.”
Eames brings Chomsky over to the couch and settles in next to Arthur. He holds the bird against his chest and drapes his arm round Arthur’s shoulders. Arthur scratches the back of Chom’s neck and leans in to kiss Eames softly on the mouth.
Eames has always fancied himself something of a lone wolf, but he figures even wolves mate up eventually. In fact, he's heard they mate for life. Maybe sometimes there are birds involved, too. Who's to say, really?
This might not be the exact domestic arrangement he’d been envisioning, but he can honestly say that he’s never felt more at home.