[December 25th] Kindred
Kindred
PG-13 - 500 Words
Author : bauble | Artist : loobeeinthesky
Prequel to If.
“Working on Christmas day?” Eames leans lazily against the doorjamb of the hotel conference room. “I thought we all agreed to take the day off?”
“We did,” Arthur says, not looking up from the papers spread out across the surface of the long table. “Sinclair’s taking the day with her family and you are free to, as well.”
“And yet you’re still here,” Eames points out, unable to resist the opportunity to needle Arthur. It’s rather unprofessional, but there’s just something about him that simply demands ruffling; perhaps that something has to do with Eames’ not so secret desire to rip off all his clothes and fuck every last bit of smug condescension out of him.
“I’m catching up on some work,” Arthur says, still not looking up.
“Were you ever behind?”
At last, Arthur puts down his pen and levels an annoyed stare at Eames. “Is there something you needed? Because I should point out that you are here as well.”
Eames pushes off the doorjamb and saunters over to take a seat. “No, pet, nothing I needed. I was actually planning to get a little work done myself.” Eames swings his briefcase onto the table and taps it twice. “I’m just surprised to see someone as lacking in the Christmas spirit as I.”
Arthur leans back in his chair and shrugs, tension easing a bit from his shoulders. “I’m Jewish, Mr. Eames. Most of my Christmas traditions involve Chinese food.”
Eames chuckles. “Fair enough.”
“Besides.” Arthur’s expression softens into something less closed off. “My family thinks I’m dead.”
“Yours too, eh?” Eames replies. Truthfully, he’s not surprised; Arthur’s been jet-setting around the world, alone, as long as Eames has known him. “My family thought I was killed in service of the Queen ten years ago. After I made off with a PASIV, the story switched from noble war hero to deranged domestic terrorist.”
“My mother thinks I was killed in an embassy bombing five years ago,” Arthur says. “Just another anonymous, random casualty of this dangerous world we live in.”
“Ah, the glamorous life of internationally wanted criminals,” Eames says with a humorless smile.
Eames thinks back to the last memory he has of Christmas with his parents: there’d been long silences punctuated by disapproving remarks and bitter drinking. He’d spent his entire youth clawing to get out and he doesn’t miss it, not at all, but there’s still something strange about the idea that he’ll never go through anything like that again. He’s spent his past few Decembers in climates that have never seen a lick of snow and in places that only have the vaguest notion of what Christmas even is and for the most part, that’s suited him just fine.
“Do you want to get a drink?” Arthur says, suddenly.
Eames doesn’t hesitate. “I’d bloody love to.”
“Alright.” Arthur stands and begins gathering up his papers. “I have whiskey, rum, and scotch in my room, along with whatever else is in the mini bar.”
That’s the last thing Eames remembers before it all fades into a hazy blur.
