[December 12th] The Goose Never Voted for an Early Christmas
The Goose Never Voted for an Early Christmas
PG-13
Author : ifeelbetter | Artist : pearljamz
“When I tell you to fuck off, I hope you take it in the spirit in which it was intended,” Arthur said when he picked up the phone.
“You’re in a mood,” Eames said simply. Arthur’s incredibly short fuse and Eames had long since made their peace with each other. “Was your mother’s plane late?”
There was a long pause. Then there was a loud crash and Arthur bit out a curse.
“I should be so lucky,” Arthur muttered.
“Don’t disparage your mother,” Eames said-mostly because the “peace” he had made with Arthur’s short fuse being less “peace” and more his own special game of “can I make the vein on Arthur’s temple explode?”-and shifted the phone to his other ear. “She carried you for nine months, you know.”
“I know. She tells me all the time,” Arthur said. There was another crash. “Ma! Stop shooting the chandeliers!” His mother shouted something back-something that sounded a lot like another reference to the nine months-and there was another crash. “I just think it would be easier to get out of here if there wasn’t half a ton of glass falling-Ma! Shoot him, not-Ma!”
“You sound busy, Eames said. “Are you going to be late?”
“God, Ma! I’m not trying to tell you what to-Ma! Don’t push that-Goddamnit!” There was a crash as Arthur (presumably) dropped the phone and something exploded. When he picked the phone back up, Arthur was out of breath and running. “Eames, can you cover for us? We’re twenty minutes out.”
“You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago,” Eames pointed out.
“Someone brought a mafia tail with her,” Arthur said. “And someone didn’t even bother to tell her only son that she was about to blow up the-“
“Fascinating, darling, you know I love deciphering your passive aggressive code,” Eames said. “Twenty minutes, you say? I’ll make your apologies.”
“Make sure they know whose fault this is-“ Arthur said but Eames ended the call before he could finish the sentence.
He pushed open the door of the hall closet he had ducked into to answer Arthur’s call and straightened his tie. The butler-Alfred, Eames had known him his whole life-coughed politely and raised his eyebrows significantly. That was the only warning he got before his mother appeared at his elbow.
“Your uncle was asking for you, darling,” she said, maneuvering him down the hall, “and he’s brought some tart in polyester. You simply must distract him from speaking with Grandmama.”
“Arthur’s going-“ Eames started to say.
“Yes, how late did he say he was going to be? And be aware that I am consciously avoiding the obvious witticism about you coming out of the closet right now.”
“You’re all kindness, mother.”
“Twenty minutes, then?” She looked over his shoulder at Alfred and made some sort of gesture that communicated the pertinent information while still looking like she was swatting a fly.
“I didn’t say-“ Eames started to protest.
“I’m taking it on faith that he’ll be presentable. Don’t make me regret withholding my barbed comments about the closet. I don’t want to have to destroy your pride in public,” she said, brushing imaginary lint from his shoulders. She flashed him a wide grin-the one that she kept for formal events.
“He’s presentable,” Eames said. “He’s…lovely.” He almost blushed at the sentimentality of it but one must sometimes be sentimental with one’s mother.
“Then I’m sure we will all get along swimmingly,” his mother said. “It’ll be a splendid Christmas dinner.”
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