with apologies to Mark Z. Danielewski.
A House of Leaves
Arthur/Eames, PG-13, prompt: " Arthur and Eames raising Cobb's kids for some reason."
2573 words
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*
Arthur finds that he can't say no to the Cobbs. Mal invades the living room with her perfumed hair and smooth black dress, armed with James and Philippa, laughing and shrieking.
"Uncle Arthur!" Philippa beams when Mal lowers her to the ground. She bounds towards Arthur in her polkadotted sundress, her small arms outstretched and her dark round eyes reminding Arthur that she is every bit Dom's daughter. Arthur pulls her to his lap where she plays with the silk fabric of his necktie, touching the pointed edge of it to his cheek and giggling.
"I'm sorry this is last minute, Arthur." Mal says at the doorway. James who is two years younger than Philippa is hiding behind Mal, tugging at the soft filmy material of her dress. "Just a second, honey," Mal chides him, looping an earring into her earlobe. She picks James up, balancing him on her hip, while she goes about fixing her hair and putting her makeup in the hall.
"Sure," Arthur tells her. "No problem. I'm not busy anyway. I'd like some time alone with the kids."
Part of that is a lie of course; he doesn't always likes kids, even if they're as well-behaved as Philippa and James. But he owes the Cobbs a lifetime's worth of favors and he doesn't want to come off as ungrateful. Besides, babysitting is no big deal; he's done it before when he was in college and still working as Cobb's understudy, pining after the young professor like a lovesick puppy, wishing for a certain kind of life with him: this house, the plush carpeting and a living room full of books and framed photographs.
"Arthur," Mal says. She is standing in front of him, taller now with her high heels and her pearls. James is curled up on the stuffed armchair by the window, sucking on his thumb and kicking up his feet.
"Yes?" Arthur says.
"You know what to do with them, right?"
"Right." Arthur says absently before shooting up from the sofa and wiping his palms on the back of his pants. "Sure. I'll be fine here. You should go or you'll be late to your date."
"The opera doesn't start in another forty minutes."
Arthur shrugs and helps her into her coat. "Traffic." he tells her. "You have to take that into account. You don't want to keep Dom waiting do you?"
Mal just laughs, the sound of it like a clear silver bell, and presses a kiss to his forehead. She says goodbye to her children and peppers their faces with lipsticked kisses and promises of little treats once she comes home.
The doorbell rings.
When Mal answers it, they find Eames standing outside with his hands dug inside his pockets and his tie loose around his neck.
"Eames." Arthur says.
"Arthur," Eames nods. He ignores Arthur for a second to give Mal a brief hug before stepping inside the living room and dumping himself unceremoniously on the sofa.
Arthur rolls his eyes. "What's he doing here?" he asks Mal.
Mal shrugs, flicks a strand of Arthur's hair out of his eyes and smooths the creases from his shirt.
"I thought you might need company," she says. "Please take care of my children, Arthur. I'm counting on you."
Mal's cab arrives a few minutes later; she disappears inside like an elusive ghost, high heels clicking, rolling down the passenger window and waving goodbye at her children who are standing on either side of Arthur, James' soft, chubby hand in Arthur's own.
From the living room, Eames peers out of the window, pushing aside the floor-to-ceiling curtains. He's got a flask of whiskey in one hand, a rolled-up Housekeeping magazine in the other and a half-chewed red lollipop dangles from the corner of his mouth.
"Guess it's just you and me then." Eames says when the cab drives out of view. He grins up at Arthur, flashing crooked teeth and a wet, red mouth. "And the kids." he adds, waving at them and ruffling their hair when they climb up to him on the sofa.
Arthur frowns and locks the front door.
It's only 6:15 and dinner won't be until about 7 so he sends the children to their room to play.
*
Arthur doesn't know what to do with the children even though he's been babysitting for Dom and Mal for several years.
He always sends them to their room to play; it seems logical, somehow, to leave them to their own devices and hover only in the periphery to make sure they don't hurt themselves. Which is why it surprises him when he finds Eames chasing them around the house, a blanket tied around his neck like a cape. James and Philippa dart past Arthur in the hall, chasing each other around his legs before heading into seperate rooms to hide, giggling at themselves.
Arthur stops Eames with a hand on his arm. "What are you doing?"
Eames shrugs and loosens the blanket around his throat. "Babysitting," he grins; if he were any other person, Arthur would think Eames were charming with his bright grey eyes and his expensive cologne. But Arthur is who he is so he rolls his eyes, evades Eames' advances when Eames leans all the way forward, arm braced on the wall behind Arthur's head and pulling him forward by the fabric of his shirt.
"Eames." Arthur says, warningly.
"Darling, honestly." Eames sighs and rolls his eyes. He steps back and drapes the blanket over one arm before clicking his tongue at Arthur. "You should get out more, you know. Live a little. Get that stick out of your round little bottom and smile. Smile!" he says gleefully, pinching Arthur's cheeks to force them into a smile.
Arthur bats his hands away, and Eames pulls the blanket over Arthur's head, trapping him underneath.
"Tag." he says, cupping Arthur's face with his hands. "You're 'it' now, Arthur." And then Eames kisses him through the soft, textured fabric before running past the hall with loud, rapid footsteps.
Arthur pulls the blankets off his face and chases after him.
*
Arthur makes dinner.
He isn't very good at it, however. He's lived for years on canned beans and takeout and even during his college years, the only time he's ever had a decent meal was whenever Mal and Cobb invited him for dinner over the weekend.
So he improvises. He improvises with whatever is left freezing in the ice box, a pack of peas, half a pound of pork, leftover ice cream which will be what is for dessert.
At 6:54, the doorbell rings. Arthur yells over the music ( Édith Piaf on the record player that sits by kitchen counter -- Mal's recent thrift find ) for Eames to check who's at the door. There is a brief scuffle in the hall, James and Philippa squealing in delight, Eames laughing, speaking to someone at the door.
Arthur turns the stove off, throwing the cooking mitt aside and loosening the apron around his waist.
"Who was that?" he asks when he steps in the hall. Eames is balancing a box of pizza in each hand, grinning.
"Dinner," he says with a flourish and a wink, "dinner is served."
Eames curtsies, grinning wider, the children jumping up around him and waving their arms.
"Gimme!" Philippa giggles.
"Gimme!" James chimes in.
Arthur just continues to frown by the doorway, arms crossed. Eames grins without apology and proceeds to unload the pizza in matching ceramic plates.
*
Part of the reason Arthur resents is Eames is that he makes it seem so easy. For someone who has no kind of work ethic whatsover, who has no regard for authority, and whose motto is fuck it all to hell, he seems to have it all figured out: he's got a house in Sweden, and the last Arthur's heard, a mistress too, somewhere in the isle of Wight. Arthur didn't even know he was married.
Before this all started -- this thing between them comprising of midnight phonecalls and hurried handjobs in Arthur's old college apartment where he still lives because he doesn't have the money to move out yet -- Arthur didn't really care enough about him. Eames was just some shady guy who hung around Cobb a lot, an antagonistic friend from the past, and not even that, but just Some Guy, a stranger who walked in and out of their lives whenever he needed a gig to pay off a debt.
It's not real anger that Arthur feels for him but a low tolerance for Eames' bullshit. He is what Cobb would've been if he had a gambling problem, if he didn't have a wife and two kids and a PhD in architecture under his belt. He is, essentially, everything Arthur doesn't admire. But that doesn't stop him from answering Eames' phonecalls or opening his front door to Eames's nightly weekend visits.
They eat dinner in the kitchen; Eames standing by the counter and shoving heapfuls of pizza into his mouth, the children at the table, drinking their juice from small plastic cups with tiny fish painted on them, picking out the pineapple from their pizza. Arthur watches them and picks idly at his own food with his fork, suddenly not hungry anymore.
Eames laughs at him, nudging him in the hip. Arthur glares. "Love, you don't eat pizza with a fork. You eat it with your hands. Like this." He exemplifies his point with little fanfare, licking the pads of his fingers.
There are grease stains all over Eames' dress shirt, smears of tomato sauce around his collar, dots of crumbs around his mouth.
"I know how to eat pizza, Eames." says Arthur, sighing, fighting off the first stirs of a headache.
"Do you really?" Eames asks.
Arthur shoots him a look. Eames folds his pizza in two and stuffs it inside his mouth. Cheeks bulging, he snatches Arthur's glass of wine and wipes his palms on the apron that Arthur forgets he still has on.
"Right," Arthur says tightly when Eames finally lets go of the apron. "That wasn't inappropriate at all."
Eames grins.
Arthur thinks he is absolutely disgusting with half-chewed food in his mouth and crooked teeth but when Eames leans all the way forward and licks a spot of sauce off Arthur's cheek, Arthur reacts by leaning on the counter for support and nudging Eames' lips apart with his tongue.
"We shouldn't be doing this around the children," Eames grins at him, pinching the bridge of Arthur's nose.
"Fuck off, man." Arthur hisses, shoving him off.
"Language, Arthur." Eames warns, waving a finger in the air. Arthur cuffs him in the shoulder halfheartedly and ignores him for good hour.
Later, when they send the kids off to brush their teeth and wash their faces, Arthur tells Eames, begrudgingly, "You're good with kids." He turns on the tap and lets the kitchen sink fill with water, watches the grease from the plates float on the surface.
Eames pours himself another glass of wine. "Someday." he says, rubbing his jaw and licking over his teeth. Two of his buttons are undone. "Someday I want some of my own."
Arthur snorts. "Really?" he asks in disbelief. "With whom?"
Eames just smiles, goofy, saying nothing. He reaches out, then thinks the better of it and puts his hand back down instead.
"You never know," he shrugs. "I think I might make a good father."
"Somehow I highly doubt that."
"You're always doubting me, pet."
Arthur turns off the tap and unties the apron. "I'm not your pet."
Across the counter, Eames leans forward on his elbows. "Mm?"
"I'm not your pet," Arthur repeats, rolling his eyes. "Or your darling, or your love; I'm not your anything, Mr. Eames."
"It's a --"
"Joke?" Arthur guesses.
"Yeah, well," Eames shrugs, looking sheepish.
"Just." Arthur waves him off, jaw clenching tightly. "Just shut up. I'm not in the mood right now."
"Tough night?"
Arthur throws him a withering look.
"Right, shutting up." Eames says, downing the rest of the wine. In the bathroom, the children make loud splashing noises with the water and run out screaming, leaving wet footprints on the carpet. Eames sighs, licks his lips clean, and then walks up to Arthur and puts a hand on the back of his neck. His thumb rubs a warm path up Arthur's jawline. Arthur shivers.
"You really don't like kids, do you," he sighs, smiling lightly. "Even if they happen to be Cobb's kids?"
Arthur hesitates for a moment. "No." he snorts. "I never know what to do with them, honestly. They're so... small."
"Of course they're small! They're children!" Eames laughs.
Arthur shrugs. Eames smiles at him in sympathy, pulling him forward for short kiss before pressing their foreheads together.
The apron falls from the countertop but neither of them make a move to pick it up.
*
Eames reads the children a bedtime story.
Arthur is tired, he's tired a lot these days especially when he is summoned to the Cobb household to do something or another, like babysit.
Arthur watches by the doorway of the bedroom as Philippa and James climb up Eames' lap. Philippa is yawning, eyelids drooping closed. James is turning over a colorful book about animals in his hands, barely paying Eames any attention. It is unfair that Eames has a way with children, with women, with people in general. Arthur is a little jealous that Cobb's children like Eames more than they like him. They laugh at all of Eames' stupid jokes, cooing at him with wonder and awe when he presents them with new toys.
The children fall asleep half an hour later. Eames tucks them into bed and ruffles their hair, turning off the light and leaving the door slightly ajar.
"That was easy." Eames says with false bravado. He sounds tired too, suspenders hanging by his sides and his shirt opened halfway when he stands next to Arthur, watching the children sleep.
"They look like such little angels," Eames says, leaning against the doorway where he is cast in the orange light of the hall. He looks taller, or grander somehow, Arthur can't put his finger on exactly what is different about him. But for once, he doesn't disagree with Eames and when Eames bumps their hips together, he doesn't protest.
They leave the light open in the hall and climb down the stairs silently, the floorboards creaking under their combined weight.
There is more wine in the kitchen so they finish that. Then they head to the living room where Eames lazes about on the sofa in front of the fire, shoes kicked off and feet propped on Arthur's lap while Arthur leafs through Cobb's periodicals.
In an hour they will get a call from Cobb who is on his way right now to pick flowers for his wife. In an another hour, Mal will jump off the ledge of a building, her lovely dress blending into the night.
But for now there is this moment, when Arthur puts a hand over Eames' ankle, absently picking at the thread sticking out of Eames' socks and rolling it between his fingernails, when Eames moans dramatically and teases Arthur about an imagined family, an imagined house with polished floorboards and a sunlit porch looking out into the sea.
This moment: Eames pulling Arthur down by his necktie, tousling his hair and calling him, laughing into his ears: darling.