Chapter Text
On Eames’s birthday, Arthur leaves him snoring in their bed and goes into the kitchen and opens a fresh tin of tea leaves that he’d bought for this occasion and hidden.
Not difficult to hide things from Eames in their kitchen, since Eames basically only ever ventures into the single cupboard in which he stashes tea and sugar and Marmite.
Arthur is in the process of making Eames a proper cup of tea and spreading Marmite on toast when he hears the Skype call come in over Eames’s tablet in the living room.
And because Arthur doesn’t want Eames’s family to think that he’s taken up with a rude American, he answers the call.
“Hello, Arthur!” croons Eames’s mother upon seeing him.
“Hello, Arthur!” echoes his father. They both send him identical, cheerful waves.
“Hi,” Arthur says, and tries a cheerful wave of his own, although he can see from the tiny rectangle of him in the lower right-hand corner that his wave just looks slightly demented. Eames’s family can make all sorts of crazy things look naturally adorable and alluring, like silly waves and clashing floral wallpapers and couches.
“Where is he?” asks Eames’s mother. “We’re going to sing him Happy Birthday.”
“Maggie made me learn harmony for it,” says Eames’s father. And then he chortles. Because Eames’s father is the sort of man who chortles. And of course it’s a charming chortle.
“Stop it,” says Eames’s mother, blushing a little bit, and elbows his father in the ribs. “Where is he, Arthur?”
“Still sleeping,” Arthur says.
Eames’s mother gasps. “Did we call too early?”
Eames’s father says, “I told you it was too early.”
“It’s a normal hour,” says Arthur truthfully. “He’s a late sleeper.”
“Oh, yes, he always was,” says Eames’s mother fondly.
“We’ll just have sing to you then, Arthur, and you can tell Eames for us,” suggests Eames’s father.
“Oh, hush, you,” says Eames’s mother, “we’ll just ring back later. Arthur, dear, how are you?”
“I’m good,” says Arthur.
“You’re looking very thin. Has Eames been feeding you properly?”
For some reason, Eames’s mother was convinced he could cook. When Arthur had asked Eames about this, Eames had told some incomprehensible story full of British slang and schoolboy customs Arthur didn’t understand and finally Arthur said, Never mind, let’s just have sex. “I’m fine,” says Arthur.
“Of course he’s fine.” Eames’s father leaps to his defense. “He’s got to look fetching in those suits, hasn’t he? Arthur, this fellow came through town, a record producer type, isn’t that what he said he was, Maggie?”
“Oh, yes,” says Maggie. “Record producer. Very posh. Should have seen his car.”
“Had a fit every time a bird flew overhead. ‘You’ve got a lot of birds here, haven’t you?’ he said to me. I felt like buying a bird call or something to attract more. Anyway, he stopped in town ‘scouting talent,’ he said, which I guess is what they’re calling it these days—”
“Albert, do not scandalize Arthur,” Maggie warns him.
Albert waves Maggie off. “But the point is that after he was in, everyone in the pub agreed that he was not nearly as smart a dresser as you.”
Maggie nods vociferously. “It’s true, Arthur. ‘Maggie,’ they said to me, ‘your boy’s American boyfriend, he wore his clothes better than that posh git.’”
Arthur isn’t sure what to make of being the top of the best-dressed list of Eames’s tiny town. He thinks he’s flattered, but he’s mostly touched any of them ever think of him at all. He’d felt very overwhelmed the one time Eames had taken him there, out of his element in the close-knit family aspect of the place. Arthur hadn’t had much of a home growing up, had only had his mother and a series of apartments; Eames had had a home that was an entire village; he had the very opposite of Arthur’s problem. Arthur was sure that everyone there thought him odd and aloof, but he hadn’t known what to do in the midst of all of it.
And Arthur still doesn’t know what to do with it, so Arthur says, “Thanks,” and hopes that’s a decent enough response.
Maggie suddenly exclaims, “Oh! We’ve been watching your show!”
“Matty illegally downloads it for us, you know,” adds Albert.
“And then we all watch it together at the pub,” continues Maggie. “We are all of us terribly addicted to it. We’re rooting for Ariadne, we think she’s quite cute, but you made Gon’s designs much better, I honestly couldn’t see what Eamesie was on about with Gon’s designs in the very first episode, they were so cold and sterile.”
“Arthur, do you two lose money because we’re illegally downloading it?” Albert asks. “Shall we send you a bit?”
“We’re fine,” Arthur assures him.
“We do not know what to make of Alec,” says Maggie.
“You obviously don’t like him, and I trust your judgment, Arthur,” Albert tells him staunchly. “I said, ‘Maggie, that boy chose our Eamesie, so he has good judgment.’”
Arthur knows he blushes a little bit there because he can see it on the screen. “It’s not that I don’t like him, it’s that…” Your idiot son slept with him because of the fact that he’s an idiot and now Alec is making it his life mission to irritate me. Arthur decides it’s easier to say, “No, you’re right, I don’t like him. We just have very different personality types.” He thinks that’s a diplomatic way of putting it.
“Well, I think you’re handling it beautifully,” Maggie says, “having Eamesie’s ex-boyfriend frolicking around you like that.”
Arthur thinks, Frolicking? Is that what you’d call that? Arthur says, “It wasn’t very serious with them,” and then wonders if that doesn’t make it sound worse: Oh, your son was just having random sex with people, you know how it goes.
“Does he wear the hat all the time?” Maggie asks.
“All the time,” Arthur answers.
“That is just very odd,” is Maggie’s assessment.
“He’s odd, that one. Arthur doesn’t like him. What does that tell you? Look at Arthur’s taste.”
“And Eamesie’s taste,” adds Maggie. “Because Eamesie chose the right one.” Maggie nods at Arthur, as if the matter is now closed for discussion.
“Well, it’s not hard to choose someone better than that Hart bloke, as far as I can see,” says Albert.
Maggie looks aghast at him.
Albert says hastily, “But of course you’re lots better, Arthur.”
Arthur wants to just sink into the ground because of the awkwardness of this whole conversation. Luckily, Eames walks into the living room at that moment, presentable enough to be on camera, so Arthur says, “Oh, look who’s up,” and turns the tablet so that he can be out of the spotlight for a little while.
Eames smiles and waves and says, “Look, darling, my parents have remembered the existence of their only child on the planet.” Then he collapses onto the couch next to Arthur, which really doesn’t put Arthur out of the spotlight much.
“You’re the one who moved across an ocean, Eamesie,” his mother reminds him good-naturedly, and then she and Albert launch into Happy Birthday. It does have harmony, but it isn’t very good harmony.
Eames beams throughout. Arthur looks stricken and tries not to.
When they are done, Eames says, “I moved an entire ocean away and it’s still not far enough to avoid your terrible singing. We’ll have to move to Antarctica next, darling.”
“It’s too cold in Antarctica for Arthur,” Maggie says. “You know he likes warm weather.”
“Who’s dating him?” demands Eames, mock-offended. “You or me?”
“I am just looking out for him. Aren’t I just looking out for you, Arthur?”
“She’s right about the warm weather,” Arthur tells Eames.
Eames grins at him and kisses the dormant dimple spot on his left cheek, which is a ridiculous thing to do in front of his parents, and then he says, “Have you been following the show? Do you brag now about how your son dates a massive celebrity?”
“We brag about both of you,” says Eames’s mother, and beams at Arthur.
Arthur is embarrassed by the praise; he is really terrible at handling this stuff and he can see on the screen that he’s gone unattractively red and is squirming a little bit. So he says, “I should leave to your catching-up,” and then winces, because of course that is the worst possible thing to say when your boyfriend’s mother says that she basically likes you a lot: oh, great, let me run away from you now.
“Were you making me tea?” Eames asks him. “I smell the lofty scent of a fresh Earl Grey.”
“No, you don’t,” Arthur says.
“How dare you impugn my British nose? I can smell tea a mile away.”
“It’s Scottish breakfast tea,” Arthur informs him. “Not Earl Grey.”
Eames gives him his kid-on-Christmas look. “Even lovelier.” Then he says to his parents, “Arthur is going to run and make me birthday tea.”
“You don’t have to, Arthur,” says Eames’s mother.
“Eames can make his own tea,” says Eames’s father.
“It’s a special birthday surprise thing,” says Arthur awkwardly, hoping he doesn’t sound too much like he’s trying to escape.
“Before you go,” says Eames’s mother, “how is your lovely mother?”
This is how Eames’s family is: Eames’s mother has never met Arthur’s mother. She’d asked about his family during Arthur’s trip to England, and Arthur had stammered something about it being just him and his mom, and Maggie had basically adopted her as one of their own. Arthur went his whole life being cautious and wary about letting people in. Eames and his parents just pull everyone into their orbit recklessly, even people they’ve never even met, like Arthur’s mother. Arthur has never been able to determine if he thinks this is insane or so touching he can’t stand it.
Arthur just says, as he always does, “She’s fine. Doing well.”
“Tell her we said hello,” chirps in Eames’s father.
Arthur tries to imagine what his mother would say if he told her that Eames’s parents say hello to her. He thinks she would say in bewilderment, But I don’t know them, because Arthur definitely gets his unfailing pragmatism from his mother.
Arthur says, “Will do,” and smiles brightly at Eames’s parents and tries a wave that just looks demented again and says, “See you later,” which he thinks sounds so completely inane he can’t stand himself.
They call pleasantries after him and he makes his escape to the kitchen, where he listens absently to village gossip while he finishes making Eames’s breakfast. When he walks back out with it, they are telling Eames the story about the not-as-well-dressed-as-Arthur record producer.
“And speaking of Arthur,” Eames says, smiling at him as he puts the plate of toast and cup of tea on the coffee table, “he’s just come in with breakfast so I really should go before it gets cold.”
Arthur frowns and says, “I don’t mean to interrupt. You can eat while you Skype.” Which seems rude, now that he thinks about it. “Or…I can just make more later.”
“Don’t be silly,” Maggie calls from the tablet, even though Arthur is out of viewpoint. “Enjoy your birthday, dearest boy.”
This, Arthur knows, is directed at Eames, although he wouldn’t be surprised if Maggie started calling him dearest boy.
Eames smiles at the tablet and says, “Thank you. I will. Enjoy the rest of the show.”
“We are looking forward to the new episode,” says Maggie.
“Matty will snag it tonight,” adds Albert.
“Bye,” Eames says, and he waves and doesn’t look like an idiot.
Arthur, so as not to seem rude, leans into the screen and says, “Bye,” and pretends that he’s waving off-screen.
Maggie and Albert wave and blow kisses and sign off.
Eames lifts his eyebrows at Arthur and says, “Is that Marmite on my toast?”
“Yes,” says Arthur. “Happy birthday.”
“Seeing as it’s my birthday,” Eames leers at him as he puts the tablet aside, “will you let me do filthy things with the Marmite?”
“No,” answers Arthur, but straddles himself across Eames’s lap anyway. “I didn’t offend your parents, did I?”
“My parents bloody adore you,” Eames points out.
Arthur doesn’t understand why—Eames is an excellent boyfriend, Arthur generally rates himself as about a six out of ten—but he also knows that it’s no use saying that to Eames, because Eames will insist on explaining to Arthur all the reasons why he’s spectacular, starting with nonsense about his droll sense of humor and ending with something about his true romantic heart or whatever.
And this is supposed to be a day all about Eames, so Arthur just says quickly, “I didn’t want to offend them, running off to make your breakfast and then cutting your call short.”
“Darling, stop it, they thought it tremendously charming that you made me breakfast and I know all about the village gossip now, I’m completely filled in, you didn’t cut our call short at all. And I’m not entirely sure why we’re talking about my parents when you’re sitting on my lap.”
“You’re right,” says Arthur. “I’m sorry. Happy birthday.” Then he takes a deep breath and then he takes a huge bite of one of the pieces of Marmite-spread toast.
Eames’s jaw drops in almost comical shock. “Darling,” he says in reverent wonder.
Arthur chews and swallows and says, “I’m sorry, but that stuff is just fucking gross. And I have had some gross things in my mouth, let’s be honest.”
“If that’s supposed to be a reference to any of my bodily fluids, I refuse to acknowledge it.”
“Well, it’s not a reference to any of Alec’s bodily fluids because I’m not the one qualified to reference those,” rejoins Arthur primly.
“Ha ha,” says Eames, “it’s a good thing I love you so much when you’re being a prick.”
“Hey, I just ate Marmite for you, okay?”
“You did,” says Eames, sounding awed again, and then tugs Arthur in for a kiss. “You taste like Marmite,” he enthuses, as if this is a good thing.
“I know,” Arthur says. “It’s got a lingering aftertaste, don’t you think?”
“Let’s see if we can’t fill your mouth with other gross things,” suggests Eames.
“This is the kind of really hot sex talk that happens in the fanfiction about us, isn’t it?”
“Oh, fanfiction can only aspire to the level of hotness my sex talk reaches,” Eames assures him.
“And everyone everywhere can only aspire to the level of your ego,” Arthur deadpans.
“Darling,” says Eames, but then follows up whatever he was going to say with a deep filthy kiss that makes up for the horrible dirty talk.
“It’s a good thing for you that you kiss like that,” Arthur pants into his open mouth, “because you don’t need hot sex talk when you kiss like that.”
“You swallowed Marmite for me,” Eames says solemnly. “This must be true love.”