And a Partridge In a Pear Tree | Inception | PG | Gen, Arthur/Eames
Title: And a Partridge In a Pear Tree
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Gen, smidge of Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None really.
Summary: Written for a prompt from inception_kink: EAMES DECIDES TO BE A MALL SANTA ONE YEAR. ARTHUR FINDS OUT. HILLARITY ENSUES.
A/N: homg, CRACK.
When Arthur runs to a nearby coffee table to roll his totem die a couple of times, Cobb thinks nothing of it. He himself has had moments in the past where, in protection of the last few shreds of his carefully-pieced-back-together sanity, he had had to spin his top and watch gravity distort its endless twirl before returning to reality.
"This isn't a dream," Arthur breathes after racing back to Cobb's side. They're in a mall in L.A., near Cobb's home, searching for Christmas presents (mostly for James and Phillippa, but Arthur said that he had been casting his eye for something that Ariadne would enjoy as well).
"No, it isn't," Cobb says sagely. He is confused by Arthur's words, but then again, Arthur is allowed to exhibit a limited amount of confused behavior, from time to time.
A wide grin appears on Arthur's face and Cobb, feeling rather disturbed, thinks that he hears Arthur let out a cackle.
"Oh Christ, this is perfect," Arthur says mirthfully, pulling Cobb's arm along behind him as he began a brisk walk towards a crowd of people gathered around what Cobb saw to be the entrance to Peavine Mall's Santaland.
Arthur points at the man sitting on the central throne, seemingly bedazzled with golden tinsel and shredded cotton meant to represent the snow that would never fall in Los Angeles. Cobb chokes on the gum he's been chewing.
Arthur thwacks him on the back, clearing Cobb's obstructed throat. "I'm going to go tell Santa what I want for Christmas."
"We're dreaming," Cobb tells him, reaching for his totem. "We must be dreaming."
--
He cannot feel his legs. The latest child (a more fat, petulant brat he had yet to see) had hopped upon his thighs so readily that it had taken all of Eames's smooth charm and bravado to wince away the pain and turn his gasp of horror into a jolly, "Oooof-- ho ho ho." Straining for a smile, he glared pleadingly at the squat man dressed as an elf who stood beside him (he had asked the elf his name earlier, but had only received an answer of "Horace from the North Pole"). The next time Eames needed money, he was just going to beg on the streets. He'd probably earn more money picking people's pockets, anyway. Illegal activities were starting to look rather appealing... he had promised himself that he'd stick to the straight and narrow after that last close call with the law, but now, staring into the eyes of seven year old boy who could probably represent a more convincingly corpulent Santa Claus, he was beginning to regret his vow.
"What would you like for Christmas this year?" Eames says in a breath through his white beard. He scoffs at the costume and thinks to himself that, as a forger, he could create a much more accurate vision of what he thought Santa would look like. Eames had believed in Santa until a very late age (yes, he had been that child, the one who had had his heart broken in grade school when he had a teacher tell him that his story of why his homework had gone missing was about as believable as the existence of Santa Claus), and thus had an solid image of what he ol' Saint Nick should look like, sitting on a pedestal in his mind.
The parent of the large boy looks at him with a desperate eye, silently imploring him to promise the boy something inexpensive. Eames smirks.
"I want a pony!" the boy shrieks. Eames pops the boy on the nose with his gloved pointer finger.
"How about two ponies?" he asks the child conspiratorially. The boy gasps and claps in hands in joy. Slipping the child off his lap, he gives a sigh of relief. The boy's parent gives him a sour look as he leads him away. Eames puts a hand to his eyes and presses against them softly. He waves at the queue and calls for the next idiot to come and sit on his lap.
He looks up at two all too familiar faces and lets out a croak of horror.
"Noooooo," is all he can say. Cobb's eyebrows are raised in high amusement, while Arthur-fucking Arthur of all people- is standing above him like a cat that's just swallowed a mouse.
Arthur plops down on Eames's lap. Eames groans.
"Weight of a small child, you have surpassed," Eames wheezes out, Yoda-like. Arthur pets Eames's white beard.
"Aren't you going to ask me what I want for Christmas?" Arthur simpers. Eames is beet red beneath his costume and sinks down, trying desperately to disappear into his sugarplum throne.
"If you'd still like to be alive by Christmas-time, I'd suggest you get the hell out of here," Eames growls.
"You are the meanest Santa I've ever met," Cobb remarks casually as Arthur pouts.
"Shut it," Eames barks at the lot of them, perhaps a bit too loudly, for the children waiting in line to see him all jump and look at him in horror. Eames calls out to them, "This one's earned himself a big old pile of coal, he has." Arthur looks at him in mock surprise.
"But I've been such a good boy this year!" he says, stamping his feet. Cobb takes his arm and laughs.
"Come on, let's let the other children have their turn," Cobb says soothingly but in a firm tone, looking back at the kids waiting to tell Eames what they want for Christmas. "I swear, you two..."
Arthur sticks his tongue out at Eames. Eames sticks his foot out and Arthur trips down the Santa dais.
"Did anyone see that?!" Arthur asks the crowd incredulously from the floor. "I can see the headline now: Santa Murders Handsome, Innocent Bystander!" He glowers back at Eames, but Santa Claus is already onto the next customer, a twinkle in his eye and a jolly "Ho ho ho," in his throat.
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Gen, smidge of Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None really.
Summary: Written for a prompt from inception_kink: EAMES DECIDES TO BE A MALL SANTA ONE YEAR. ARTHUR FINDS OUT. HILLARITY ENSUES.
A/N: homg, CRACK.
When Arthur runs to a nearby coffee table to roll his totem die a couple of times, Cobb thinks nothing of it. He himself has had moments in the past where, in protection of the last few shreds of his carefully-pieced-back-together sanity, he had had to spin his top and watch gravity distort its endless twirl before returning to reality.
"This isn't a dream," Arthur breathes after racing back to Cobb's side. They're in a mall in L.A., near Cobb's home, searching for Christmas presents (mostly for James and Phillippa, but Arthur said that he had been casting his eye for something that Ariadne would enjoy as well).
"No, it isn't," Cobb says sagely. He is confused by Arthur's words, but then again, Arthur is allowed to exhibit a limited amount of confused behavior, from time to time.
A wide grin appears on Arthur's face and Cobb, feeling rather disturbed, thinks that he hears Arthur let out a cackle.
"Oh Christ, this is perfect," Arthur says mirthfully, pulling Cobb's arm along behind him as he began a brisk walk towards a crowd of people gathered around what Cobb saw to be the entrance to Peavine Mall's Santaland.
Arthur points at the man sitting on the central throne, seemingly bedazzled with golden tinsel and shredded cotton meant to represent the snow that would never fall in Los Angeles. Cobb chokes on the gum he's been chewing.
Arthur thwacks him on the back, clearing Cobb's obstructed throat. "I'm going to go tell Santa what I want for Christmas."
"We're dreaming," Cobb tells him, reaching for his totem. "We must be dreaming."
--
He cannot feel his legs. The latest child (a more fat, petulant brat he had yet to see) had hopped upon his thighs so readily that it had taken all of Eames's smooth charm and bravado to wince away the pain and turn his gasp of horror into a jolly, "Oooof-- ho ho ho." Straining for a smile, he glared pleadingly at the squat man dressed as an elf who stood beside him (he had asked the elf his name earlier, but had only received an answer of "Horace from the North Pole"). The next time Eames needed money, he was just going to beg on the streets. He'd probably earn more money picking people's pockets, anyway. Illegal activities were starting to look rather appealing... he had promised himself that he'd stick to the straight and narrow after that last close call with the law, but now, staring into the eyes of seven year old boy who could probably represent a more convincingly corpulent Santa Claus, he was beginning to regret his vow.
"What would you like for Christmas this year?" Eames says in a breath through his white beard. He scoffs at the costume and thinks to himself that, as a forger, he could create a much more accurate vision of what he thought Santa would look like. Eames had believed in Santa until a very late age (yes, he had been that child, the one who had had his heart broken in grade school when he had a teacher tell him that his story of why his homework had gone missing was about as believable as the existence of Santa Claus), and thus had an solid image of what he ol' Saint Nick should look like, sitting on a pedestal in his mind.
The parent of the large boy looks at him with a desperate eye, silently imploring him to promise the boy something inexpensive. Eames smirks.
"I want a pony!" the boy shrieks. Eames pops the boy on the nose with his gloved pointer finger.
"How about two ponies?" he asks the child conspiratorially. The boy gasps and claps in hands in joy. Slipping the child off his lap, he gives a sigh of relief. The boy's parent gives him a sour look as he leads him away. Eames puts a hand to his eyes and presses against them softly. He waves at the queue and calls for the next idiot to come and sit on his lap.
He looks up at two all too familiar faces and lets out a croak of horror.
"Noooooo," is all he can say. Cobb's eyebrows are raised in high amusement, while Arthur-fucking Arthur of all people- is standing above him like a cat that's just swallowed a mouse.
Arthur plops down on Eames's lap. Eames groans.
"Weight of a small child, you have surpassed," Eames wheezes out, Yoda-like. Arthur pets Eames's white beard.
"Aren't you going to ask me what I want for Christmas?" Arthur simpers. Eames is beet red beneath his costume and sinks down, trying desperately to disappear into his sugarplum throne.
"If you'd still like to be alive by Christmas-time, I'd suggest you get the hell out of here," Eames growls.
"You are the meanest Santa I've ever met," Cobb remarks casually as Arthur pouts.
"Shut it," Eames barks at the lot of them, perhaps a bit too loudly, for the children waiting in line to see him all jump and look at him in horror. Eames calls out to them, "This one's earned himself a big old pile of coal, he has." Arthur looks at him in mock surprise.
"But I've been such a good boy this year!" he says, stamping his feet. Cobb takes his arm and laughs.
"Come on, let's let the other children have their turn," Cobb says soothingly but in a firm tone, looking back at the kids waiting to tell Eames what they want for Christmas. "I swear, you two..."
Arthur sticks his tongue out at Eames. Eames sticks his foot out and Arthur trips down the Santa dais.
"Did anyone see that?!" Arthur asks the crowd incredulously from the floor. "I can see the headline now: Santa Murders Handsome, Innocent Bystander!" He glowers back at Eames, but Santa Claus is already onto the next customer, a twinkle in his eye and a jolly "Ho ho ho," in his throat.