In which Arthur and Eames are penguins.
Word Count: 1,300
Rating: G, really. How much higher can you go with penguins?
Warnings: Unashamed, unadulterated FLUFF. Also: bending of reality in regards to how clean-up procedures of penguins work, as well as zoos.
Notes: This is just something I dreamed up late at night after reading this article about knitting sweaters for oil-spill-affected penguins in New Zealand I found earlier this month. I couldn't help it. Vaguely inspired by paperflower86's Penguin Love.
It was a normal day-or it was supposed to be a normal day-for Arthur, until he swam into something that was black and muddy and wrong. Now his feathers stuck together and he smelled bad and he was cold. That was the worst, the feeling of being so cold his bones seemed to freeze and his muscles tensed.
“It’s okay, little fella,” the big pink creature said to him, baring its teeth. It was most certainly not okay, he wanted to argue, lifting his head weakly. He was cold and covered in something that made him sick. He made a sad noise and hung his head because lifting it required energy, which was making him want to crawl into a hole and die.
“Oh, Christ,” another pink creature said, “this one’s a mess.” This creature had, in his hands, a squirming penguin like Arthur. Except that he was bigger and had some strange yellow feathers forming a crest on the top of his head.
‘Bloody fuck, get this shit off me. NOW,’ the penguin protested at the top of his lungs, shouting obscenities in ways Arthur had never heard before. The pink creatures-though really it was just their faces that were pink, the rest of their bodies varied in colors that changed from day to day-smiled sympathetically and cooed at him.
“It’s okay, you’re going to be okay,” one of them said to the thrashing penguin.
‘It is not bloody okay. DON’T YOU LIE TO ME.’
“He’s distressed,” the creature holding the protesting penguin said. The patches of oddly-shaped feathers above his eyes pressed together in worry. Arthur saw that expression on his mother’s face the first time he ventured away from the nest.
“Well, mine seems pretty calm. Maybe he’ll calm yours?”
“You think that’s a good idea? They could hurt each other.”
“We’ll just watch them closely.”
And that’s how the angry penguin got put in Arthur’s nest. Once he was free, he shook himself and moaned.
‘This whole thing is bollocks,’ he muttered to himself. Arthur nodded in sympathy but that made him feel as if his brain was smashing against the sides of his skull. Which hurt. He cried out and tipped over.
‘Whoa, whoa whoa. Steady on, mate,’ the other penguin said, sidling next to Arthur before he could actually fall over. Somewhere above their heads, the pink creatures were making strange cooing noises. Arthur ignored them.
‘Thanks,’ he said, somewhat ashamedly. The other laughed.
‘What’s your name? I’m Eames.’
‘Arthur.’
‘Pleasure to meet you, then, Arthur. So what sort of penguin are you? You don’t really look like me. I’m a Macaroni.’
‘I’m a Little Blue.’ Arthur blushed slightly. He expected a snide comment about how puny he was, how he was a little twinkling fairy, blah blah blah-he’d heard it all.
‘I like blue’ is what Eames said instead. Arthur blinked, completely wrongfooted.
‘Oh,’ he said. Eames cocked his head and fixed Arthur with an unusually intense look.
Not knowing how to respond, Arthur ducked his head and began to preen, like he usually did to clean himself. It should have worked. Except-except that it didn’t. Not this time. The stuff tasted disgusting, sharp and bitter and a thousand times worse than it smelled, but Arthur kept going.
“Whoa now, hold on there, little fella. That’s not a good idea.” One of the pink creatures stopped him, holding him gently but firmly. But it was, he argued sadly, he had to clean himself. Eames was cleaner than he was, couldn’t he be like Eames?
‘They don’t like it when you do that, Arthur. But I think they’ll clean you soon.’ Eames gurgled, looking up at him reassuringly. Arthur felt better. When he was picked up and carried away, however, he squawked indignantly.
‘Arthur, it’s okay. They’re not going to hurt you.’
‘Oh, like you were doing so well earlier,’ he snapped, kicking his feet and thrashing his head even though it hurt hurt hurt.
‘That. I was just being dramatic, you know how it is. Trust me. They just want to help you. They helped me. Just go with them.’ Arthur didn’t want to calm, but Eames voice was soothing.
‘Fine. But you better be right here when I get back.’
‘Promise, darling.’
-
‘You look ridiculous.’ Arthur grumbled sleepily after the fifth time he’d been poked in the eye with Eames’ ridiculous yellow crest. ‘That yellow is an affront to all colors.’
‘I like ‘em,’ Eames said, shrugging. ‘They’re fancy. And, admit it, you liiiike them,’ he crooned and nuzzled against Arthur’s neck. Arthur huffed and turned his face away-but he was smiling.
And against his neck, he could feel that Eames was too.
-
‘Oh god,’ Arthur moaned, looking mournfully down at himself. ‘I just-what is this?’ The pink creatures had called it a “sweater” before they’d put it on him. At first, he didn’t mind it so much. The sweater was soft and smelled better than the black gunk that still hadn’t gone away. Best of all, it was warm. Arthur had almost forgotten what it felt like to be truly warm. He’d snuggled into the sweater, taking to it immediately in a way that delighted his handlers.
That was before they’d brought him back to the Care Unit. Arthur, upon catching sight of himself in a shiny surface, was horrified to find that he was wearing something in hideous shades of magenta and yellow in mismatched, uneven stripes. Eames, meanwhile, was wearing a black-and-white sweater that looked positively dapper. He was also roaring with laughter. Arthur glared at him.
‘You look charming! Absolutely charming!’ Eames crowed, still laughing.
‘This is undignified!' he complained. 'Couldn’t they have given me something that didn’t insult all taste and sensibility? Like yours? We should switch, Eames. You belong in this one.’
‘But, look, you match me now.’ Eames said, laying his yellow feathers over the yellow on Arthur’s sweater.
‘As if that’s supposed to make me feel better,’ he muttered, shaking Eames’ feathers away.
‘Doesn’t it, darling?’ Eames asked, snuggling closer. Arthur sighed as the warmth of Eames’ body bled through the sweater and enveloped him.
‘I suppose it does.’
-
A week later, Arthur was given a clean bill of health. No more black gunk, no more smell. He wasn’t cold anymore, so the horrible striped sweater was taken away from him. He didn’t know what the pink creatures were going to do with it but he had a suggestion.
‘You should burn it!’ he shouted, flapping his wings. ‘Burn it! It’s awful. Don’t torture another penguin with it!’
‘Darling.’ It was Eames, behind him. His voice was oddly muffled so Arthur turned around. The other penguin had a small stone in his beak, which he placed at Arthur’s feet. Afterward, he bowed his head and extended his neck, making a rather odd trumpeting noise.
‘What-?’
‘Well, you’re feeling better now, aren’t you? Which means you’ll be able to sleep here with all of us, right? I just thought that-well-maybe you’d like to share my nest?’ Eames shifted on his feet, refusing to meet Arthur’s eye.
‘Oh.’
‘Look, you don’t have to!’ Eames said hurriedly. ‘Why would you? I mean, my feathers bother you, I know. I just…’
‘Eames,’ Arthur said.
Eames wasn’t listening, was still looking at his shuffling feet, so Arthur did the only thing he thought would work. He found another stone and dropped it next to the one Eames had brought to him.
‘Darling…’ Eames whispered, looking at him with disbelieving eyes. Arthur turned his beak up to disguise the silly grin that was threatening to burst on his face.
‘Well, I can’t let you find ALL the stones, now, can I? Knowing you, you won’t be sensible about it at all. Someone’s got to keep you in check.’
‘Really!’ Eames chirped, ruffling his feathers in consternation. ‘In that case, someone’s got to teach you how to dream a little bigger, darling. And I think I’m just the penguin for the job.’
‘Yes,’ Arthur agreed, nuzzling close to Eames, ‘I think you are.’
Rating: G, really. How much higher can you go with penguins?
Warnings: Unashamed, unadulterated FLUFF. Also: bending of reality in regards to how clean-up procedures of penguins work, as well as zoos.
Notes: This is just something I dreamed up late at night after reading this article about knitting sweaters for oil-spill-affected penguins in New Zealand I found earlier this month. I couldn't help it. Vaguely inspired by paperflower86's Penguin Love.
It was a normal day-or it was supposed to be a normal day-for Arthur, until he swam into something that was black and muddy and wrong. Now his feathers stuck together and he smelled bad and he was cold. That was the worst, the feeling of being so cold his bones seemed to freeze and his muscles tensed.
“It’s okay, little fella,” the big pink creature said to him, baring its teeth. It was most certainly not okay, he wanted to argue, lifting his head weakly. He was cold and covered in something that made him sick. He made a sad noise and hung his head because lifting it required energy, which was making him want to crawl into a hole and die.
“Oh, Christ,” another pink creature said, “this one’s a mess.” This creature had, in his hands, a squirming penguin like Arthur. Except that he was bigger and had some strange yellow feathers forming a crest on the top of his head.
‘Bloody fuck, get this shit off me. NOW,’ the penguin protested at the top of his lungs, shouting obscenities in ways Arthur had never heard before. The pink creatures-though really it was just their faces that were pink, the rest of their bodies varied in colors that changed from day to day-smiled sympathetically and cooed at him.
“It’s okay, you’re going to be okay,” one of them said to the thrashing penguin.
‘It is not bloody okay. DON’T YOU LIE TO ME.’
“He’s distressed,” the creature holding the protesting penguin said. The patches of oddly-shaped feathers above his eyes pressed together in worry. Arthur saw that expression on his mother’s face the first time he ventured away from the nest.
“Well, mine seems pretty calm. Maybe he’ll calm yours?”
“You think that’s a good idea? They could hurt each other.”
“We’ll just watch them closely.”
And that’s how the angry penguin got put in Arthur’s nest. Once he was free, he shook himself and moaned.
‘This whole thing is bollocks,’ he muttered to himself. Arthur nodded in sympathy but that made him feel as if his brain was smashing against the sides of his skull. Which hurt. He cried out and tipped over.
‘Whoa, whoa whoa. Steady on, mate,’ the other penguin said, sidling next to Arthur before he could actually fall over. Somewhere above their heads, the pink creatures were making strange cooing noises. Arthur ignored them.
‘Thanks,’ he said, somewhat ashamedly. The other laughed.
‘What’s your name? I’m Eames.’
‘Arthur.’
‘Pleasure to meet you, then, Arthur. So what sort of penguin are you? You don’t really look like me. I’m a Macaroni.’
‘I’m a Little Blue.’ Arthur blushed slightly. He expected a snide comment about how puny he was, how he was a little twinkling fairy, blah blah blah-he’d heard it all.
‘I like blue’ is what Eames said instead. Arthur blinked, completely wrongfooted.
‘Oh,’ he said. Eames cocked his head and fixed Arthur with an unusually intense look.
Not knowing how to respond, Arthur ducked his head and began to preen, like he usually did to clean himself. It should have worked. Except-except that it didn’t. Not this time. The stuff tasted disgusting, sharp and bitter and a thousand times worse than it smelled, but Arthur kept going.
“Whoa now, hold on there, little fella. That’s not a good idea.” One of the pink creatures stopped him, holding him gently but firmly. But it was, he argued sadly, he had to clean himself. Eames was cleaner than he was, couldn’t he be like Eames?
‘They don’t like it when you do that, Arthur. But I think they’ll clean you soon.’ Eames gurgled, looking up at him reassuringly. Arthur felt better. When he was picked up and carried away, however, he squawked indignantly.
‘Arthur, it’s okay. They’re not going to hurt you.’
‘Oh, like you were doing so well earlier,’ he snapped, kicking his feet and thrashing his head even though it hurt hurt hurt.
‘That. I was just being dramatic, you know how it is. Trust me. They just want to help you. They helped me. Just go with them.’ Arthur didn’t want to calm, but Eames voice was soothing.
‘Fine. But you better be right here when I get back.’
‘Promise, darling.’
-
‘You look ridiculous.’ Arthur grumbled sleepily after the fifth time he’d been poked in the eye with Eames’ ridiculous yellow crest. ‘That yellow is an affront to all colors.’
‘I like ‘em,’ Eames said, shrugging. ‘They’re fancy. And, admit it, you liiiike them,’ he crooned and nuzzled against Arthur’s neck. Arthur huffed and turned his face away-but he was smiling.
And against his neck, he could feel that Eames was too.
-
‘Oh god,’ Arthur moaned, looking mournfully down at himself. ‘I just-what is this?’ The pink creatures had called it a “sweater” before they’d put it on him. At first, he didn’t mind it so much. The sweater was soft and smelled better than the black gunk that still hadn’t gone away. Best of all, it was warm. Arthur had almost forgotten what it felt like to be truly warm. He’d snuggled into the sweater, taking to it immediately in a way that delighted his handlers.
That was before they’d brought him back to the Care Unit. Arthur, upon catching sight of himself in a shiny surface, was horrified to find that he was wearing something in hideous shades of magenta and yellow in mismatched, uneven stripes. Eames, meanwhile, was wearing a black-and-white sweater that looked positively dapper. He was also roaring with laughter. Arthur glared at him.
‘You look charming! Absolutely charming!’ Eames crowed, still laughing.
‘This is undignified!' he complained. 'Couldn’t they have given me something that didn’t insult all taste and sensibility? Like yours? We should switch, Eames. You belong in this one.’
‘But, look, you match me now.’ Eames said, laying his yellow feathers over the yellow on Arthur’s sweater.
‘As if that’s supposed to make me feel better,’ he muttered, shaking Eames’ feathers away.
‘Doesn’t it, darling?’ Eames asked, snuggling closer. Arthur sighed as the warmth of Eames’ body bled through the sweater and enveloped him.
‘I suppose it does.’
-
A week later, Arthur was given a clean bill of health. No more black gunk, no more smell. He wasn’t cold anymore, so the horrible striped sweater was taken away from him. He didn’t know what the pink creatures were going to do with it but he had a suggestion.
‘You should burn it!’ he shouted, flapping his wings. ‘Burn it! It’s awful. Don’t torture another penguin with it!’
‘Darling.’ It was Eames, behind him. His voice was oddly muffled so Arthur turned around. The other penguin had a small stone in his beak, which he placed at Arthur’s feet. Afterward, he bowed his head and extended his neck, making a rather odd trumpeting noise.
‘What-?’
‘Well, you’re feeling better now, aren’t you? Which means you’ll be able to sleep here with all of us, right? I just thought that-well-maybe you’d like to share my nest?’ Eames shifted on his feet, refusing to meet Arthur’s eye.
‘Oh.’
‘Look, you don’t have to!’ Eames said hurriedly. ‘Why would you? I mean, my feathers bother you, I know. I just…’
‘Eames,’ Arthur said.
Eames wasn’t listening, was still looking at his shuffling feet, so Arthur did the only thing he thought would work. He found another stone and dropped it next to the one Eames had brought to him.
‘Darling…’ Eames whispered, looking at him with disbelieving eyes. Arthur turned his beak up to disguise the silly grin that was threatening to burst on his face.
‘Well, I can’t let you find ALL the stones, now, can I? Knowing you, you won’t be sensible about it at all. Someone’s got to keep you in check.’
‘Really!’ Eames chirped, ruffling his feathers in consternation. ‘In that case, someone’s got to teach you how to dream a little bigger, darling. And I think I’m just the penguin for the job.’
‘Yes,’ Arthur agreed, nuzzling close to Eames, ‘I think you are.’