[December 25th] On The Merits of Checking The Calendar
On The Merits of Checking The Calendar
PG-13 - 3385 Words
Author : gyzym | Artist : platina & sandrocks
Summary : In which Arthur is forgetful and Eames still isn't the Old Spice man.
The first clue should really be the fact that Eames wakes Arthur up.
Of the two of them, Arthur is more likely to be described at the morning person; he's capable of cognizant thought before a shower, which is more than can generally be said of Eames. In fact, the most that can generally be said of Eames in the mornings is that he's breathing, and sometimes Arthur has to check that, just to be sure. But this particular morning, he's awake and alert, his wet hair dripping into Arthur's face, and he's grinning like an asshole.
"Mmph," says Arthur, and rolls over.
"Oh, no," Eames says, "not today, love."
"What do you mean, 'not today'?" Arthur manages, popping one eye open. "When is the last time you remember me being the lazy asshole who wouldn't--"
"Yes, yes, I'm a drain on your time and energy," Eames said easily, waving a hand. "I'm very aware, but you have to get up, I've a present for you."
Arthur is sure that, somewhere in the world, there are couples for whom the sentence "I've a present for you" does not inspire deep, arcane terror. He's equally sure he's not in one of them.
"Why?" he demands, opening both of his eyes. "And what, Eames, oh my god, I told you no more presents after that parrot--"
"Reginald wasn't a present," Eames informs him coolly. "Reginald was an investment."
"You kept him for three weeks, waited until he heard me say 'motherfucker' enough times to pick it up, and sent him to Yusuf and Ariadne," Arthur returns. "How is that an investment?"
Eames smiles beatifically. "It's the expression on their little faces."
"I hate you," Arthur says, and closes his eyes again.
Unfortunately, Eames is not so easily deterred. He pokes Arthur.
He pokes Arthur again.
After a few minutes of this, it occurs to Arthur that whatever he's being poked with is…not feeling much like it's Eames' finger. He opens his eyes.
"Eames," he says, looking down, "did you tie a bow around your cock?"
"I did indeed," Eames says, smirking. "Now, tell me, darling--do you really intend to turn down your present?"
--
Arthur has a very productive workday, despite his rather late start to the morning. He tracks down background information on three prospective architects to take Ariadne's place during that job they can't seem to make work with her exam schedule, handily redirects a hit placed on him to one of those persistent Cobol bastards, takes a call from his mother that is unpleasant but mercifully brief, and still has time to slip into the restaurant where their current mark used to work.
He's in a good mood when he gets home; he'd gotten to use his patented "Oh don't mind me, I'm just idly playing with this kitchen knife, but why yes I could stab you with it, couldn't I," move at the restaurant. It's one of his favorites; intimidation is a subtle art.
His good mood evaporates rather quickly when he gets through the door.
"Eames," he says, staring at the table. He drops his bag on the floor, rooted to his spot, his eyes wide. "Eames!"
"You rang?"
"There's a," Arthur says, and feels like he's choking on it. He swallows, but when he tries to speak again he finds that shock and horror have overcome his vocal cords. He settles for pointing, hoping his expression will communicate his feelings on the matter.
When Eames just wrinkles his forehead, though, Arthur feels compelled to express himself verbally.
"Candle," he says, infusing the word with the disgusted gravity of generations.
"Oh," Eames says, and then he flushes slightly, which, just--Eames. Eames doesn't blush, because Eames doesn't have shame, Arthur has been dragged out of bars and clubs and petting zoos with Eames and hasn't seen him blush, what the hell is happening. "Yes, that."
"Why?" Arthur asks, his mouth open. The candle is long and white, tapered, and…."Jesus, where did you even find a candle holder--oh for fuck's sake, that's a vodka bottle, is this fucking Molotov building practice? You're going to burn the goddamn house down--"
"No!" Eames says, blocking him as he moves to blow the candle out. Arthur raises his eyebrows and glares, but Eames doesn't move. "Don't blow it out."
"You are going to tell me," Arthur says, "what the fuck is going on. Right now."
"Can't a man want a little romance, Arthur?" Eames asks, too innocent.
"Not when it's a fire hazard!" Arthur snaps. "And--and no, ew, no, what are you smoking--"
"Did I or did I not wake you up with fabulous sex this morning?" Eames asks, his voice going a little harder. "Do you or do you not want that to continue?"
"I--you--"
"Let me have the candle," Eames wheedles. "It's just one, and I got takeaway from that sushi place you like."
"Hmmm," Arthur says. He looks at the candle, and then back at Eames, who is looking…decidedly earnest about the whole thing. And, as he has been repeatedly told by everyone in his life, relationships are about compromise.
"Did you get unagi?" he asks, relenting, and tries not to wince when Eames beams.
--
"Wake up," Eames says, jabbing him in the side with his thumb the next morning. Arthur groans.
"What the hell," he asks the pillow. "What happened to the lazy shit I used to know? Why the fuck are you--"
"I got tickets to that thing you like," Eames says cheerfully. Arthur groans again, and does not open his eyes.
"Stop trying to be the Old Spice man, Eames," he advises, for the millionth time. Eames makes a decidedly put-upon noise, and Arthur doesn't have to look to know he's pouting.
"Must you crush my dreams?"
"Someone has to," Arthur mutters, but he opens his eyes. Eames' pout shifts into a grin when he notices Arthur's eyes on him, and then he does, yes, actually whip out a pair of tickets for--
"Monster Truck Mania," Arthur breathes, staring. Faintly, he is aware that Eames is laughing at him, but he can't be fucked. "Eames, how the hell did you--these have been sold out for weeks, I threatened a guy at gunpoint for these and couldn't get them, I didn't even tell you I wanted--"
"You shouldn't share information with Cobb that you don't want me to have," Eames says easily. "He's remarkably simple to crack--give the man a few beers and he'll just babble on and on. Some of it's fairly maudlin, of course-- "
"Dom always was a sappy drunk," Arthur agrees. He reaches for the tickets, takes them almost reverently and places then on the side table.
"So you like them, then," Eames says, because he apparently enjoys stating the obvious.
"Yeah," Arthur confirms. "But why are you--"
"Would you look at the time," Eames interjects, hauling himself out of bed and flashing Arthur a quicksilver grin. Arthur's eyes narrow in suspicion. "I'm off then, see you tonight, yeah?"
"If this is a bribe it's not going to work," Arthur calls after him, but he's dipping out the door too fast for Arthur to say anything else.
--
Arthur's workday is slightly less productive than usual, mostly because he's distracted by the present. Not, of course, in any kind of ridiculous sappy way--that would be sappy. And ridiculous. But he can't figure out the motivation behind it, can't figure out what Eames is trying to apologize for.
Which is, of course, even more worrying than if he could pinpoint the purpose behind the gift. It doesn't mean Eames hasn't done anything terrible and wrong, just that he's done something so terrible and so wrong that Arthur is going to have to do massive clean up when it does eventually come to light.
Eames, the infuriating bastard, replies to Arthur's interrogative texts with things like "What, I can't feel like spoiling you?" and "Honestly, you're far too suspicious, it's beginning to grate," and "WHY ARE YOU SO BLOODY IMPOSSIBLE," which is less than helpful.
Still, he does manage to get through his to-do list with time to spare; possibly this is because his to-do list includes Lurking Inexplicably and Menacingly In The Corner of A Private Meeting, which is one of his favorite activities. There's nothing quite so satisfying as watching hardened corporate types trying to convince themselves they're not frightened.
He takes another phone call from his mother on the way home; it is as unpleasant as the one the day before had been. He's pretty sure she's annoyed about something, but then she's generally annoyed about something. He'd worry about it, but he discovers when he gets home that he has more pressing things to worry about.
"Eames," he says, going into the kitchen, "there are candles again."
"Ah, yes," Eames says. He glances into the oven, raises his eyebrows at whatever's inside, and shuts the door. "Well spotted."
"There are two," Arthur says. "There are two, are they reproducing? And also we didn't have another empty vodka bottle, and if you dumped my Armadale--"
"Of course I didn't dump your Armadale," Eames says, waving a hand. "It's in a pitcher in the fridge."
"A pitcher," Arthur repeats. "The fridge."
"Well, I needed the bottle."
"Why do I live here?" Arthur asks the ceiling. "And also, seriously, why are there two candles?
"The lighting was atrocious last night," Eames informs him. "There obviously needed to be two."
"For a--where did you get the idea that we needed to do candlelit dinners?" Arthur asks. He can feel a faint panic creeping up in his chest, but tries to ignore it. "Are you trying to soften some kind of blow? Did someone die? Are you taking some job, because I'd really rather skip the meal and get down to figuring out who it is you're working for--
"Always so suspicious," Eames sighs, flipping off the oven and giving him a strange, loaded look. "Although, if you're serious about skipping dinner, I suppose I can think of other things we could do."
What Arthur should do--what he should really, really do--is continue this conversation. Because it is actually important that Eames understand that he's not interested in grand gestures of romance…even in muted gestures of romance, really. Because it's actually important that Eames understand that Arthur is Not That Kind of Guy, that he hadn't thought Eames was, either.
But then Eames is throwing him into the wall too hard, yanking at Arthur's hair as he surges forward against his mouth, and Arthur figures it can wait until tomorrow.
--
Of course, tomorrow starts with Eames waking him up--again--and offering him a gift, again.
"You might as well just tell me what you did," Arthur sighs, rubbing his eyes. It's no use--the socks are still the same hideous shade of orange. "It would be easier, and you're seriously starting to freak me out."
"Darling," Eames says earnestly, "do you honestly think that I'd get you socks, if I'd cocked something up badly enough to attempt to mitigate your fury with presents? Really?"
"Anything's possible," Arthur says, eyeing the things with distaste. "You did buy me a fucking purse in Prague that one time."
"That wasn't a purse," Eames says, affronted. "It was a shoulder bag, and it was for Ariadne. It's hardly my fault that you assumed--"
"Well, given how well it matched--"
"Since when have I even given a bloody fuck about things matching--"
"Oh, thank god, are you actually going to admit that you're colorblind?"
"Just take the fucking socks, would you?" Eames mutters, getting up. And then he turns, and almost absently leans down to kiss Arthur breathless before he walks out of the bedroom.
"Well," Arthur says to the empty room, pulling the stupid orange monstrosities on despite himself, "something weird is definitely going on."
by platina | Full Size
Arthur's day at work is not productive, because he cancels almost all of his engagements in order to go on a full-scale investigative spree regarding Eames' recent behavior. He recognizes, on some level, that this is creepy--but then again, Eames had gotten involved with him fully aware that he's basically the toll booth on the information superhighway, and everything that ever happens more or less goes through him first. Actually, Eames tends towards being shocked and horrified when he's gotten something past Arthur, but he only ever manages it because Arthur makes a concentrated effort not to pry into his affairs.
Usually, anyway. Circumstance is circumstance.
Unfortunately, none of his lines of inquiry turn up anything of interest. Eames has been gambling--typical; Eames has been seen about with various shady characters--normal, and also generally at Arthur's behest. Eames narrowly avoided a conceal and carry arrest three weeks ago, and he'd actually told Arthur about that. They'd laughed about it over beers.
It's not just that Eames isn't involved in anything more nefarious than his normal day to day--he is, apparently, also being more or less honest all the time.
"Well," Arthur says to himself, "this is disconcerting."
"Yes," a file clerk agrees, looking him up and down. "I'm pretty sure this door was locked. And also, who wears an Armani suit to go breaking and entering?"
"If you'd left out the suit comment I would've been more gentle with you," Arthur says mournfully to the unconscious body on the floor two minutes later, and takes his leave of the police station.
--
He gets home a little early, after hanging up on his mother's increasingly irate rant about his inability to remember his commitment to family--she really is annoyed about something, he's going to have to look into that--and unlocks the door, bracing himself for another round of madness.
This time there are three candles on the table. The third one is wedged into a Pepsi can, their supply of empty bottles and/or pitchers having apparently expired. This seems…even more strange than before.
Concerned, he wanders into the kitchen, and promptly freezes in his tracks. Eames glances up from the stove, looking caught. There's a potato in one of his hands, and a box of pancake mix in the other, and something that looks suspiciously like an oil burn gracing his right arm.
by sandrocks
Arthur stares. Arthur stares some more. Arthur registers, suddenly, the date, and starts ticking through how long it's been since--and the presents, and his mother's irritation, and Eames' insistence that he not blow out--
"Oh my god, Eames, you asshole," Arthur says, "is it Chanukah?"
"Oh, now we're talking about it," Eames says, scowling. "You're a bloody mystery, Arthur, you really are."
"What are you talking about?" Arthur asks, pulling out of his phone and running a search. He swears under his breath--why, why, why can't he ever remember to put this stupid holiday in his calendar, it sneaks up on him every goddamn year, no wonder his mother's been pissed.
"I can't believe your admitting it," Eames says. "Honestly, I really thought--but no, by all means, pretend you forgot, that's a very classy move--"
"I did forget!" Arthur says, laughing a little despite himself. "Jesus, did you think --that was one time, one time I pretended to forget--"
"Clearly no one ever told you the story of the boy who cried No Eames, It's Not Yom Kippur," Eames says, his scowl not letting up an inch.
"That doesn't even make sense," Arthur says. "And I thought you would make me fast. I hate fasting."
"But you'd feel guilty if you didn't," Eames counters. "I know you would, I do recall the mood you were in after the Lorenzo job--"
"That was about how badly the job went," Arthur lies; in truth, he had felt bad about missing the holiday, but there's no reason to tell Eames that. Eames gives him the hairy eyeball anyway.
"That was about the fact that you didn't go to temple and you know it."
"Stop projecting your guilty about Lent--"
"I am a lapsed Catholic--"
"And I'm a non-practicing Jew," Arthur reminds him, which actually earns a sliver of a smile from Eames.
"Lies," he says. "Slander and lies. You think I don't know where you vanished to during the Millicent job in September? I am actually capable of figuring out what day Rosh Hashana falls on."
"Why do you know when all of the Jewish holidays are?" Arthur demands, throwing his hands in the air. "I have trouble keeping track, why--"
"Because it's important to you," Eames says, shrugging. "Even if you don't like to admit it."
And that kind of shuts Arthur up for a minute. Because--not that he's ever spent much time thinking about it--but the whole Judaism thing is one of those issues he's sort of avoided bringing up with Eames, to the extent that he can. It's just…he is, mostly, non-practicing, but there are things he can't shake, pieces of his childhood that he carries with him despite himself. And "Well, I'd like to practice some of the Jewish holidays, some of the time, depending on the year and how recently I've spoken to my family, because the jury's still out on whether or not I believe in god," is, you know, a relationship conversation, which…well, okay, he does live with Eames, and he's not really planning on leaving, but there's cohabiting and then there's…basic conversations about religion that usually happen on third or fourth dates…
"Huh," Arthur says, because he's feeling a bit of an idiot. Also, it's occurred to him that Eames has probably assumed this is one of those hurdles Arthur expects him to jump on his own, which isn't exactly fair, come to think of it. And yet, despite that, he seems to have done a decent job of figuring it out.
"Did you really not know it was Chanukah?" Eames asks.
"I really didn't," Arthur confirms. "It's not a particularly important holiday."
"I know," Eames says, not without a little bit of pride. "I've done a considerable amount of research. I can tell you the entire story of the Macabees, if you like."
"I'll pass," Arthur says, smiling. "So this whole thing was--what, you trying to get me to cave and whip out a menorah?"
"Not really," Eames admits. "I don't actually give a bloody fuck what we do to celebrate it, if we celebrate it at all--but I also didn't want to ignore it, in case you wanted to do something, and, well, I get the impression that talking about it makes you uncomfortable, so--
"You figured you'd go ahead with kind of celebrating it," Arthur fills in, "and I could join in, or not."
"More or less," Eames sighs. "If I'd realized you were actually in the dark, I would have mentioned it. I can only imagine your mother."
"She'll get over it," Arthur shrugs, making a mental note to send her an e-card or something. "I, uh, thanks, Eames. This is…weird, but nice."
Eames makes a face that's halfway between a smile and a wince. "Sure," he says. "Although, since we're already talking about it, do you actually want to continue with the--"
"Oh, god, no, we don't have to--" Arthur starts, and he's going to expand on that point when something he'd seen earlier actually catches up to him. "Eames. Wait. Are you trying to make latkes with pancake mix?"
"Before you say anything," Eames says, holding up a hand, "I do actually know that there isn't pancake mix in latkes. I do know that."
"You do," Arthur repeats, flat.
"I do," Eames agrees. "I just don't believe it. Also, I ruined the last batch entirely despite following the recipe to the letter, so I figured it couldn't hurt to add a little. Pancakes comes from boxes. That's always been true."
Arthur stares for a second. Then he laughs, and takes off his jacket, and rolls up his sleeves. "I'm probably just as bad at this as you," he warns. "I haven't made these since I was a kid."
"You don't have to, you know," Eames tells him. "I can try again, or we can give it up and order a pizza."
"Well, it's kind of the least I can do. You did get me monster truck tickets," Arthur says, bumping their shoulders together, and Eames smiles.