12 Songs of Christmas My True Love Gave To Me part one
Title: 12 songs of Christmas my true love gave to me
Pairings or Characters: Eames/Arthur
Rating: R
Word Count: 20,ooo+
Disclaimer: none of the characters or songs are of mine, just used as inspiration!
Warnings: cheesiness and sappiness so you better like trees and dairy products or this ain’t ganna work out for you…
Summary: 12 christmas’ of Arthur and Eames.
Author's Note: This is for the lovely Cherry_road, who said she loved music and domestic stuff, I tried to fuse the two together but I am not so sure how well I did, but I hope you enjoy this! Thank you!
betaed by so many lovely people who told me to go on, and pushed me through as I was getting discouraged, (I think I wrote it about 5 times, over all word count was like 100K+ words but I kept like deleting them and rewriting… but yes!) A MILLION THANKS to flower_envy and rah_rah_ramen also a big thanks to my friend on tumblr, paperfacesonparade who all helped me by betaing on such late notice. thank you! also a big thanks to scribjerky who made the BEAUTIFUL fanmix cover! thank you!
enjoy!
graphics done by the lovely scribjerky
12 songs of Christmas my true love gave to me
12 songs of Christmas my true love gave to me
The Most Wonderful Day of the Year
How'd you like to be a spotted elephant?
Or a choo-choo with square wheels on your caboose!
Or a water pistol that shoots... jelly?
We are all misfits!
2000
Arthur had grown up poor, something Eames had noticed and been quick to point out when they first met. (Needless to say that from then on, Arthur vowed to forever despise Eames.) But yes. Arthur grew up poor-every month was a battle of making ends meet. Arthur never really celebrated Christmas, mostly because he was Jewish; but the fact was that his parents never had enough money to celebrate even the Jewish holidays.
So Arthur grew up with a habit of ignoring holidays (even though now, he was wealthy enough to celebrate any to all holidays)-he didn’t find the need to celebrate Christmas, or Hanukah. The idea of gift giving was a bit lost on him. So when February came around and Arthur came back from a long job in Berlin to his studio loft in LA, he was surprised to find a package waiting for him. Arthur really didn’t know how to take the surprise.
He grabbed the parcel and studied it.
The package wasn’t big-no bigger than a child’s shoebox. It was wrapped in a brown paper bag and a straw string, a card stuck between. Arthur took the card and opened it slowly.
The card was a 5 x 8 heavy stock paper with a hand drawn picture of what looked like Central Park’s ice skating rink. Arthur flipped the card around to find familiar handwriting.
“To my favorite stick in the mud, Arthur.
We only met last year around this time and I worked with you twice, but I thought it’d be lovely of me to drop this gift while I was in town on a job!
Enjoy it, for he is precious!
- Mr. Eames!
P.S.: Yes, you should call me Mr. Eames-I still don’t believe you’re old enough to drink. Grow a ‘stache, see how that works out for you.
P.P.S.: Christmas was always one of my favorite days of the year, but now I find myself excited to give you ridiculous gifts as a token of my appreciation! ‘Till our next anniversary!”
Arthur rolled his eyes in irritation, placed the parcel and the card down on his kitchen table, and headed towards his bedroom where he neatly stripped and took a steamy hot shower. He dried and dressed in comfortable lounging clothes and headed towards the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of Syrah and pouring himself a healthy amount in his glass. As he exited his kitchen, the package caught his eyes. Arthur stood in his kitchen staring at the package, contemplating if he should open it or not, and then decided, ‘why not?’ He went over and set his bottle and glass on the table and started to pull on the straw stings. After ripping the brown paper, Arthur found himself opening a small box, revealing a stuffed red elephant with green polka-dots. The color scheme made his eyes hurt.
Arthur grabbed the card again and re-read carefully.
“He’s precious my ass. . .” Arthur muttered as he stuffed the elephant back into the box, leaving it on his kitchen table. The con man proceeded to grab his wine and trudge back into his bedroom where he finished half a bottle and promptly fell asleep.
If Arthur took the card and posted it on his fridge, it wasn’t for any sentimental reasons or anything-he just professionally and genuinely admired Eames’s drawing of Central Park. And if Arthur took the stuffed elephant and placed it carefully in his closet by his favorite pairs of shoes, then he did so because that was the only place in his closet where there was room.
Holly Jolly Christmas
Have a holly jolly Christmas
And in case you didn't hear
Oh by golly have a holly jolly Christmas
This year
2001
Arthur was not a full time con man. Arthur, on paper, was an art dealer/critic for the Institute of Fine Arts Los Angeles and also part time curater for The Getty. In his spare time (on paper) he liked to travel and enjoy fine dinning. In reality, Arthur is traveling around the world, taking on extraction jobs, all for the sole reason of building. Arthur was introduced to dream-sharing during his last year in college, while taking an extra course in Italian Renaissance Architecture. There was a guest speaker on the physical possibilities, and by the end of the week he was introduced to dream-architecture and completely hooked on dream-sharing. By the end of that year he was helping extractors build in dreams.
The addiction Arthur found in building in dreams was probably brought on by the fact that he didn’t have the ability to create in real life. He couldn’t paint or draw or sculpt; he tried very hard through out all of high school and college, but he just did not possess the gift of art-so the whole building within a dream for Arthur was like . . . well, a dream come true. Arthur, however, was a fairly good guitarist and enjoyed playing whenever he was bored and needed time to empty his head.
Arthur didn’t know exactly how Eames got a hold of his personal number, but he did.
“I’m stuck in Georgia, Arthur. Do you know anything about Georgia?” Eames greeted. His usual British accent was gone, meaning he was in-character for his flight. It was odd to hear Eames without his British accent; to hear him speak like another shallow guy from LA was a bit unnerving.
“That’s wonderful, Mr. Eames. I don’t really care now if you please-”
“Did I interrupt something, Arthur? Perhaps a lady friend over? No? No, of course not. Then a lovely male companion?”
Arthur blushed at the mention of having “a lovely male companion.” Its not that Arthur was celibate but after taking on enough extraction jobs, he couldn’t help but to feel paranoid about who he shared a bed with. Though that reason did not explain the empty take out boxes piling up on his coffee table, or Home Alone playing, muted, on his television. The dark-haired man cleared his throat and continued in an annoyed voice, “None of your business, Mr. Eames. Please don’t call this number again.”
“Now, now, Arthur; are you upset because you didn’t get a package today? I know it’s our lovely anniversary-though I’m beginning to think that this relationship of ours is rather one-sided…”
“Good night, Mr. Eames.”
“Ah, now I know you don’t want to hang up, Arthur; you enjoy our talks. I’m the only one you’ve met who can keep you entertained for long enough,” Eames said and Arthur could just imagine him leaning against the telephone stall with a smug smirk on his face, tongue in cheek.
“What in the world makes you think I enjoy speaking with you?”
“Because,” Eames said whispering, his usual accent seeping through, “if you didn’t, you would have hung up by now.”
Arthur’s eyes widened-he was thankful that Eames wasn’t there to witness his face.
“Anyways, Arthur, your lovely gift will be arriving in a couple of days-and I do hope you enjoy it-”
“I-” Arthur started, but he was cut off by Eames groaning.
“God! This song again! Ridiculous! What is it with Georgia and this damn song?” Eames growled out. From the background Arthur could hear a familiar intro to a Christmas song.
“Have a Holly Jolly Christmas-it’s the best time of the year-”
“It’s Burl Ives. . . .”
“I’m not American, Arthur. I don’t know who that is,” Eames said, unimpressed.
“Well . . . I don’t think most Americans know who he is either. . . .”
“Well then! Proves my point,” Eames said brightly.
“And what exactly is your point, Mr. Eames?” Arthur asked.
“Hmm . . . I’m not sure though, but Happy Holidays, Arthur,” Eames said in a low and sincere voice. Arthur found it hard not to let the heat rise up on the back of his neck and cheeks.
“I . . . um . . . you too,” Arthur said, and then finished it by clearing his throat. Even from over the phone he could hear Eames grinning. In the background, he heard a monotone voice announcing a flight was now cleared for boarding.
“Oh look! My flight’s boarding. It’s been delayed for 3 hours, Arthur. Simply ridiculous. Cheers, Arthur-” and with that, the line went dead. Arthur stared a good full minute at his home handset before he too turned it off.
Four days later, Arthur received a rather large package with the words “handle with care” plastered all over it.
After meticulously opening the box, to his surprise, he found himself holding a guitar. Not just any guitar, but the exact same guitar that he had broken five weeks ago. Arthur picked up the Sapele guitar and tested out the strings, finding them out of tune. He sat in front of his door, where he started to tune the six guitar strings. Once the guitar was tuned, Arthur smiled and started to play familiar chord progressions, softening out the strings and testing out the new frets, which were yet to be worn in.
An hour must have passed before he realized he was still sitting in front of his door admiring his new guitar. He inspected the guitar while wondering how in the world Eames knew he needed a new one, never mind to get the exact same model and brand. Then he noticed an envelope taped carefully on the top lid of the guitar’s box.
Arthur stared at it before reaching for it. There were butterflies in his stomach as he started to open the envelope. This year the stock paper had a hand-painted water painting of Paris. On the back it read:
“To Arthur!
Year two! Look at that! Now, before you think I’ve bugged your home or something, I haven’t. I can tell you’ve broken your guitar because at the job in Prague you didn’t have any extra luggage and I know you bring that silly guitar to your jobs-which I have to say I believe is a healthy and good thing! You have a creative stress-relieving outlet! Good for you!
Now, if I am in any way wrong about the guitar then you can now learn how to play one and gain a creative stress-relieving outlet.
Cheers, Arthur.
Eames.”
Arthur rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile. Arthur placed the card on the floor and went back to playing the guitar.
C- G 7th, -C
C- E diminished - G
G 7th- C diminished- G 7th- E diminished
G 7th- F diminished- C- G 7th
Repeat…
Have a holly jolly Christmas
It’s the best time of the year
I don’t know if there’ll be snow
But have a cup of cheer…
Hark! The Herald Angels Sing
Peace on earth and mercy mild
God and sinners reconciled
2002
Arthur is on legitimate business. Not dream-sharing business, but actual art gallery business. He has to keep up appearances, and so he’s now in Uffizi Gallery in Italy at some Gala party he’s been invited to-but he rarely enjoys these events. He is standing in front of “Madonna in Sorrow” by Giovanni Battista Salvi da Sassoferrto. Arthur stood there admiring the workmanship of the artist’s brush strokes.
“You’d think that since she’s ‘in sorrow’ he’d paint a few tear drops from her eyes or something, eh?” a familiar deep voice asked into Arthur’s left ear. Arthur flinched and turned quickly to find Eames standing behind him, dressed sharply in a well fitted tux and wearing a small smile on his face.
“Hello, Arthur,” the British man said, stepping over to Arthur’s left. Eames wore a simple black tux, complete with a white bow tie. Eames looked like James Bond, in a glove like fitted tux and his accent played up to sound proper and posh. He even wore a proper red carnation on his lapel. The British man’s jaws were clean shaved making Arthur wonder how it would feel against Arthur’s own cheeks, but the idea was quickly terminated after he saw Eames’ full lips curve into a teasing smirk.
“Mr. Eames,” Arthur said after closing his mouth and composing himself. He glanced around at the other guests then looked back on the painting. “What are you doing here?” Arthur asked, trying to sound indifferent.
“Hmmm-” Eames hummed out a smile as he looked at the Sassoerrto, “Working. You?”
“I was invited to this party,” Arthur said. “H- how are you?” he asked quietly.
Arthur last saw Eames nine months ago on an extraction job gone wrong. Eames was shot twice; before Arthur could manage the wheel, Eames somehow managed to shove Arthur out of the car before driving the car over a bridge.
For three months, Arthur was sure that Eames had died, and he found himself surprisingly in a fit of depression. (If the small voice in the back of Arthur’s head had told him that it actually wasn’t that surprising that he was depressed, then Arthur took no substantiation off that.) It was three months and two weeks after Arthur last saw Eames drive over a bridge that he received a plain stock paper in his mailbox, without a drawing on it, but just the simple words:
“I’m alive. I’m okay. See you soon.”
“Quite well actually, it’s my first job back. Thought I’d do something easy like an art heist, ya know, just to keep limber,” Eames said, turning to Arthur. Arthur frowned a bit, the feeling of anger started to grow in the middle of his chest. Arthur silently gave a small huff and turned back and stared at the Madonna, not really looking at it-just starting at anything but Eames.
“Aw, now, Arthur, no need to get angry with me,” Eames said, as if he knew what Arthur was thinking and feeling.
“I’m not; why would I be?” Arthur asked curtly, still staring holes through the painting. Eames gave an apologetic smile before looking down at his feet and restancing himself.
After a moment, Eames asked, “How do you like this painting? A fan of Italian Renaissance art?” Arthur peered over to the broader man and found that it was a genuine question.
“Yes, in fact I’m a big fan of Italian painters in general,” Arthur said quietly before draining his flute.
“Ah, good to know. What do you think of this particular painting though? As a gallery manager and an art critic?” Arthur wasn’t surprised Eames knew his real occupation. Arthur is never surprised now-Eames seemed to read him like an open book. From guessing what kind of collared shirts he preferred to what kinds of songs he played on his guitar, Eames always seemed to know; and that terrified him.
When they were in Prague nine months back, something had happened between the two of them, but Arthur couldn’t exactly pinpoint what it was. Just the way they spoke to each other and the way they sat and looked at each other, something was just . . . different.
“Well,” Arthur started; he licked his dry lips and the gestured to the Madonna’s face, “When you said she should be crying you couldn’t be more wrong, because she already is. Just look,” Arthur said as he pointed. “Look at her eyes, then look at her lips.”
“What of it?”
“Well, her eyes are heavy. Dark, filled with this deep solace, not cold, just lukewarm as if she’s sad but she’s trying to accept it as gracefully as she can. Her lips, though, are smiling. See? Just faintly. She’s sad her son is dead… but she knows he’s going to rise again. She knows that everything is going to be okay, and that the pain is just temporary.”
Eames hummed in acknowledgement, “Even though she knows she’s probably not going to see her son again? After he’s resurrected.”
Arthur slowly looked up at Eames whose dark blue eyes seemed to be glossed with something of ruefulness and the need for reconciliation.
“I don’t understand the question.”
Eames took a step closer to Arthur, leaned over and spoke while staring deep into Arthur’s eyes, “Is she smiling even knowing that she may never see her son again, after he’s resurrected? Smiling even though she may never see him again; yes he is alive now-probably going to heaven-but she’ll never see him as long as she lives. Is she still smiling knowing that fact?”
Arthur’s throat is parched and he can feel his breath sharply digging into his chest. Eames is too close to him and asking questions that obviously have a hidden meaning. Arthur didn’t want to answer-Eames had no right to ask anything of him. Throwing him out of a car so he could die like a martyr, to come back after all these months, pretend something hadn’t changed between them in Prague, and just . . .
“Don’t be angry with me, Arthur,” Eames recited again in a whispered. His hand came up to Arthur’s holding the flute. For a second, Arthur thought Eames was going to take his hand, but instead the forger’s hand fell on his wrist where the artful fingers played with Arthur’s silver cufflinks.
“I’m not angry,” Arthur said weakly in a broken breath. Eames gave a timid smile so unlike Eames’s usual confident smile. It was so unnatural to see Eames smile in such a manner that Arthur had to look away.
A moment later, Eames coughed and then asked, “So if say someone, this is totally theoretical of course, had painted a fake and swapped it with this original painting and had sent it to you, how would you feel about that?”
Arthur snapped his head up to Eames, bug-eyed.
“Don’t. You. Dare.”
“What? Why not? You like it! Give me 2 weeks and there’s your belated anniversary gift!” Eames whispered playfully as he gave Arthur’s cufflinks a flick. Arthur just glared at Eames, finding no amusement in what the British man was saying. “Okay, okay. Fine. Not funny-I will leave all art pieces aside from the one I was commissioned to steal,” Eames said with tongue in cheek, “Now, tell me about that painting, Arthur.”
Eames and Arthur didn’t speak of the nine months behind them; instead, they walked around the gallery as they traded their critique of each piece ‘till around 10:30. Then Eames smiled sadly at Arthur.
“I’m going to turn into an art thief now, Arthur; I’m afraid I have to leave you.”
“For a second, I thought you were going to say you were going to turn into a pumpkin,” Arthur said, giving an understanding smile.
Eames stared at Arthur, making Arthur slightly nervous again-like when he was opening his card sometime around this time last year. Arthur’s insides seemed to quiver at the way Eames’s dark blue-gray eyes seemed to burn into Arthur’s skin and make him feel hot all over.
“Arthur-” Eames started, his British vowels dragging the second syllable to his name, “when I pushed you out of the car in Prague. . . .”
“Don’t . . . don’t worry about it,” Arthur said, shutting his eyes away from Eames’s stare. Once he shut his eyes, all he could see was the frenzy of red bleeding out of Eames and the car leaping off the bridge.
“I . . . I sincerely thought I was going to die, Arthur. I wasn’t going to drag you in with me. You have to understand,” Eames said.
“I said it’s fine. It’s okay-I . . . I’m okay, you’re okay, and you have a job to do, yes?” Arthur said as he gave Eames a tight smile and a nod, which Eames didn’t seem to buy. Eames’s eyes were like the deep ends of the ocean-it was always so . . . moving. . . .
“Well then, take care, Arthur,” Eames said. Arthur simply nodded, not trusting his voice. Eames drew his hand and cupped the back of Arthur’s head, and for a split millisecond Arthur thought Eames was going to draw him closer and do . . . do something, but instead Eames simply lowered his hand and squeezed the exposed part of Arthur’s neck. As soon as their skin touched, Arthur felt a jolt go through him. It wasn’t until after he saw Eames disappear into the crowd of rich attendees that he flung his hand where Eames had touched him just to make sure that Eames’s hand wasn’t still there.
The phantom touch didn’t go away for hours.
When Arthur arrived back from Italy a week later, he found a mail notice stating he needed to go to the post office to pick up a rather large shipment.
There was no card that year, but on the back of the canvas Arthur could read Eames’s messy writing in pencil,
“I’m not going to tell you if this one is real or fake though you already know its not but if it was real how scandalous it is that I’ve written on the back of it?
Eames.”
We Need A Little Christmas Now
It's time we hung some tinsel on that evergreen bough.
For I've grown a little leaner,
Grown a little colder,
Grown a little sadder,
Grown a little older
And I need a little angel
Sitting on my shoulder,
Need a little Christmas now.
2003
He had to admit that he was a bit addicted to the dream-sharing-he’d heard of dream-sharing dens where people paid to go into deep sleep and just spend entire lifetimes in a dream, but Arthur refused to fall that deep.
Arthur had refused to take on any jobs this year-he felt that for the last three years he had been getting too deep into the criminal class, taking on too many jobs away from his “daytime” job. This had nothing to do with the last job he took with Eames in Prague, or just Eames in general. Well, that’s what Arthur told himself at night before going to bed, anyway.
Eames had called him a couple times throughout the year, asking if he wanted in as point or as an architect for a job, but every time Arthur refused. Eames never pushed for a reason why or called him out on his bullshit excuses-just teased him about how sad he was going to be working alone surrounded by pigs who would never fully appreciate the brilliancy of his plans. He always ended the call, “Maybe next time then, eh, Arthur?”
Arthur always replied back with, “Yeah. Sure. Of course.”
It’s Christmastime and Arthur has nothing to do. Everyone else around him at work (his on-paper work) had something planned. Places to go, parties to plan, people to see-but Arthur didn’t really have any close friends he kept in contact with, or family to visit. It was pitiful how Arthur had spent the last four days in his loft doing fuck nothing.
At first he decided to spoil himself for the holidays and went out in search of a new suit, but everywhere he went was filled with people and crying children and sick shoppers, so that he ended up borrowing bad movies and holing up in his apartment.
About two days ago Arthur started talking to himself, and he found it disconcerting. So, in order to feel better about himself, he dug out the stuffed elephant from his closet and set it down near him, never close but a reachable distance away, and spoke to it, like while watching Titanic he would turn to the spotted elephant and say, “Why doesn’t she just move over? Then he’ll be out of the water?”
It’s Christmas Eve and Arthur plans to get piss drunk so he can sleep through Christmas day. Arthur popped open his first bottle of wine, but before he could take a sip, there was a knock at his door.
“I’m just going to ignore that. There is no one in my life to come and visit me on Christmas Eve without calling first,” Arthur muttered to himself. “Probably carolers. . . .”
Another knock came upon his door, and it got louder and faster and faster until-
“WHAT?!” Arthur swung open his door to find Eames with his hand still held up in a knocking position. The forger smiled.
“Arthur! Is that scruff?”
“Wha- What are you doing here?” Arthur exclaimed, spreading his arms open to block the doorway as Eames tried to take a step forward.
“Oh, how rude, Arthur. I know you better than that!” Eames said, noticing the glass of wine still in Arthur’s hand. “Oh my, orange wine? Really Arthur? How pretentious!” Eames said delightedly as he plucked the glass out of Arthur’s hand and sipped it, pushing past Arthur and making his way to Arthur’s sofa. Arthur closed and locked the door behind them, grumbling. He fell short of yelling at Eames when he saw the man smiling smugly at him from his sofa, the spotted elephant in hand. “Admit it. He is precious, is he not?”
Arthur bit his lip, forcing his blush to die down and slowly counted to 10 before marching into his kitchen for harder liquor.
“Don’t drink, Arthur, that would spoil my gift!” Eames exclaimed from the sofa. Arthur sighed as he stopped pouring vodka into a tumbler. He pinched his nose and rubbed his temple. Moments later, he marched back into the living room demanding an explanation for Eames’s presence: “Seriously, what are you doing here?”
“Well, you’re a downright Grinch this year, aren’t you?”
“Just answer the question, Mr. Eames.”
“Just hand-delivering your gift, Arthur. It’s rather . . . um . . . particular and I couldn’t just mail it, you see,” Eames said as he motioned his head at his feet where a silver case lay. Arthur’s mouth opened a little.
“Is, is that a-”
“Yes, Arthur it is! Merry Christmas, Happy Anniversary! Want to try?”
They’re on a bridge-it’s snowing down gently.
“Is this the Thames?”
“Yes. One of my favorite walking places-well was. Can’t really get back into the country, I’m afraid. Had a bit of a tiff with one of the members in Parliament. Long story. . . . Anyways!” Eames said, clapping his hands once as he stood next to Arthur, admiring the view.
“The air smells so-”
“Damp,” Eames filled in, causing Arthur to roll his eyes and look at him with an exasperated expression.
“I was going to say crisp, fresh.”
“Oh, well that, too, then.”
“Come on-” Eames said as he hooked his arm with Arthur’s, leading him down along the street colorfully decorated with tinsels and wreathes.
“Everything is so colorful.”
“Yeah, we Europeans take Christmas very seriously,” Eames said, stressing the word “very.”
“It’s nice,” Arthur supplied as he looked at the decorations on each store window. “This is nice,” Arthur said as he looked at Eames and gave him a genuine smile. “Thank you.”
“Not a problem, Arthur,” Eames spoke “Why don’t you enjoy your dream, Arthur? Dream and make something festive and fun?”
Arthur gave Eames a beaming smile, eager to create something-it had been too long and Arthur was shaking with excitement to build.
Once Arthur finished building a green glass building in a shape of a Christmas tree, he turned to find out that Eames was no longer in the dream. About 30 minutes later in dream time, Arthur woke up on his sofa in a comfortable supine position with a blanket thrown over him and the spotted elephant wedged between his left elbow and the armrest. Arthur turned his head in the direction of the door to find a familiar envelope taped to the door. Arthur quickly unhooked himself from the PASIV and scampered his way to the door, snatching at the envelope.
Arthur felt a wave of heat creep up his face once he opened up the envelope to find the stock card with a quick sketch of himself sleeping on his sofa. The image of Eames, drawing him, sitting across from Arthur as he was dreaming, made Arthur feel somewhat exposed and yet so . . . so. . . .
Arthur slowly flipped the card over; it read:
“No need to be afraid, darling. Promise I won’t try to get killed anymore.
And everyone needs to celebrate Christmas, okay?
Happy dreams-
Eames.”
PART TWO CLICK HERE TO CONTINUE
Pairings or Characters: Eames/Arthur
Rating: R
Word Count: 20,ooo+
Disclaimer: none of the characters or songs are of mine, just used as inspiration!
Warnings: cheesiness and sappiness so you better like trees and dairy products or this ain’t ganna work out for you…
Summary: 12 christmas’ of Arthur and Eames.
Author's Note: This is for the lovely Cherry_road, who said she loved music and domestic stuff, I tried to fuse the two together but I am not so sure how well I did, but I hope you enjoy this! Thank you!
betaed by so many lovely people who told me to go on, and pushed me through as I was getting discouraged, (I think I wrote it about 5 times, over all word count was like 100K+ words but I kept like deleting them and rewriting… but yes!) A MILLION THANKS to flower_envy and rah_rah_ramen also a big thanks to my friend on tumblr, paperfacesonparade who all helped me by betaing on such late notice. thank you! also a big thanks to scribjerky who made the BEAUTIFUL fanmix cover! thank you!
enjoy!
graphics done by the lovely scribjerky
12 songs of Christmas my true love gave to me
12 songs of Christmas my true love gave to me
The Most Wonderful Day of the Year
How'd you like to be a spotted elephant?
Or a choo-choo with square wheels on your caboose!
Or a water pistol that shoots... jelly?
We are all misfits!
2000
Arthur had grown up poor, something Eames had noticed and been quick to point out when they first met. (Needless to say that from then on, Arthur vowed to forever despise Eames.) But yes. Arthur grew up poor-every month was a battle of making ends meet. Arthur never really celebrated Christmas, mostly because he was Jewish; but the fact was that his parents never had enough money to celebrate even the Jewish holidays.
So Arthur grew up with a habit of ignoring holidays (even though now, he was wealthy enough to celebrate any to all holidays)-he didn’t find the need to celebrate Christmas, or Hanukah. The idea of gift giving was a bit lost on him. So when February came around and Arthur came back from a long job in Berlin to his studio loft in LA, he was surprised to find a package waiting for him. Arthur really didn’t know how to take the surprise.
He grabbed the parcel and studied it.
The package wasn’t big-no bigger than a child’s shoebox. It was wrapped in a brown paper bag and a straw string, a card stuck between. Arthur took the card and opened it slowly.
The card was a 5 x 8 heavy stock paper with a hand drawn picture of what looked like Central Park’s ice skating rink. Arthur flipped the card around to find familiar handwriting.
“To my favorite stick in the mud, Arthur.
We only met last year around this time and I worked with you twice, but I thought it’d be lovely of me to drop this gift while I was in town on a job!
Enjoy it, for he is precious!
- Mr. Eames!
P.S.: Yes, you should call me Mr. Eames-I still don’t believe you’re old enough to drink. Grow a ‘stache, see how that works out for you.
P.P.S.: Christmas was always one of my favorite days of the year, but now I find myself excited to give you ridiculous gifts as a token of my appreciation! ‘Till our next anniversary!”
Arthur rolled his eyes in irritation, placed the parcel and the card down on his kitchen table, and headed towards his bedroom where he neatly stripped and took a steamy hot shower. He dried and dressed in comfortable lounging clothes and headed towards the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of Syrah and pouring himself a healthy amount in his glass. As he exited his kitchen, the package caught his eyes. Arthur stood in his kitchen staring at the package, contemplating if he should open it or not, and then decided, ‘why not?’ He went over and set his bottle and glass on the table and started to pull on the straw stings. After ripping the brown paper, Arthur found himself opening a small box, revealing a stuffed red elephant with green polka-dots. The color scheme made his eyes hurt.
Arthur grabbed the card again and re-read carefully.
“He’s precious my ass. . .” Arthur muttered as he stuffed the elephant back into the box, leaving it on his kitchen table. The con man proceeded to grab his wine and trudge back into his bedroom where he finished half a bottle and promptly fell asleep.
If Arthur took the card and posted it on his fridge, it wasn’t for any sentimental reasons or anything-he just professionally and genuinely admired Eames’s drawing of Central Park. And if Arthur took the stuffed elephant and placed it carefully in his closet by his favorite pairs of shoes, then he did so because that was the only place in his closet where there was room.
Holly Jolly Christmas
Have a holly jolly Christmas
And in case you didn't hear
Oh by golly have a holly jolly Christmas
This year
2001
Arthur was not a full time con man. Arthur, on paper, was an art dealer/critic for the Institute of Fine Arts Los Angeles and also part time curater for The Getty. In his spare time (on paper) he liked to travel and enjoy fine dinning. In reality, Arthur is traveling around the world, taking on extraction jobs, all for the sole reason of building. Arthur was introduced to dream-sharing during his last year in college, while taking an extra course in Italian Renaissance Architecture. There was a guest speaker on the physical possibilities, and by the end of the week he was introduced to dream-architecture and completely hooked on dream-sharing. By the end of that year he was helping extractors build in dreams.
The addiction Arthur found in building in dreams was probably brought on by the fact that he didn’t have the ability to create in real life. He couldn’t paint or draw or sculpt; he tried very hard through out all of high school and college, but he just did not possess the gift of art-so the whole building within a dream for Arthur was like . . . well, a dream come true. Arthur, however, was a fairly good guitarist and enjoyed playing whenever he was bored and needed time to empty his head.
Arthur didn’t know exactly how Eames got a hold of his personal number, but he did.
“I’m stuck in Georgia, Arthur. Do you know anything about Georgia?” Eames greeted. His usual British accent was gone, meaning he was in-character for his flight. It was odd to hear Eames without his British accent; to hear him speak like another shallow guy from LA was a bit unnerving.
“That’s wonderful, Mr. Eames. I don’t really care now if you please-”
“Did I interrupt something, Arthur? Perhaps a lady friend over? No? No, of course not. Then a lovely male companion?”
Arthur blushed at the mention of having “a lovely male companion.” Its not that Arthur was celibate but after taking on enough extraction jobs, he couldn’t help but to feel paranoid about who he shared a bed with. Though that reason did not explain the empty take out boxes piling up on his coffee table, or Home Alone playing, muted, on his television. The dark-haired man cleared his throat and continued in an annoyed voice, “None of your business, Mr. Eames. Please don’t call this number again.”
“Now, now, Arthur; are you upset because you didn’t get a package today? I know it’s our lovely anniversary-though I’m beginning to think that this relationship of ours is rather one-sided…”
“Good night, Mr. Eames.”
“Ah, now I know you don’t want to hang up, Arthur; you enjoy our talks. I’m the only one you’ve met who can keep you entertained for long enough,” Eames said and Arthur could just imagine him leaning against the telephone stall with a smug smirk on his face, tongue in cheek.
“What in the world makes you think I enjoy speaking with you?”
“Because,” Eames said whispering, his usual accent seeping through, “if you didn’t, you would have hung up by now.”
Arthur’s eyes widened-he was thankful that Eames wasn’t there to witness his face.
“Anyways, Arthur, your lovely gift will be arriving in a couple of days-and I do hope you enjoy it-”
“I-” Arthur started, but he was cut off by Eames groaning.
“God! This song again! Ridiculous! What is it with Georgia and this damn song?” Eames growled out. From the background Arthur could hear a familiar intro to a Christmas song.
“Have a Holly Jolly Christmas-it’s the best time of the year-”
“It’s Burl Ives. . . .”
“I’m not American, Arthur. I don’t know who that is,” Eames said, unimpressed.
“Well . . . I don’t think most Americans know who he is either. . . .”
“Well then! Proves my point,” Eames said brightly.
“And what exactly is your point, Mr. Eames?” Arthur asked.
“Hmm . . . I’m not sure though, but Happy Holidays, Arthur,” Eames said in a low and sincere voice. Arthur found it hard not to let the heat rise up on the back of his neck and cheeks.
“I . . . um . . . you too,” Arthur said, and then finished it by clearing his throat. Even from over the phone he could hear Eames grinning. In the background, he heard a monotone voice announcing a flight was now cleared for boarding.
“Oh look! My flight’s boarding. It’s been delayed for 3 hours, Arthur. Simply ridiculous. Cheers, Arthur-” and with that, the line went dead. Arthur stared a good full minute at his home handset before he too turned it off.
Four days later, Arthur received a rather large package with the words “handle with care” plastered all over it.
After meticulously opening the box, to his surprise, he found himself holding a guitar. Not just any guitar, but the exact same guitar that he had broken five weeks ago. Arthur picked up the Sapele guitar and tested out the strings, finding them out of tune. He sat in front of his door, where he started to tune the six guitar strings. Once the guitar was tuned, Arthur smiled and started to play familiar chord progressions, softening out the strings and testing out the new frets, which were yet to be worn in.
An hour must have passed before he realized he was still sitting in front of his door admiring his new guitar. He inspected the guitar while wondering how in the world Eames knew he needed a new one, never mind to get the exact same model and brand. Then he noticed an envelope taped carefully on the top lid of the guitar’s box.
Arthur stared at it before reaching for it. There were butterflies in his stomach as he started to open the envelope. This year the stock paper had a hand-painted water painting of Paris. On the back it read:
“To Arthur!
Year two! Look at that! Now, before you think I’ve bugged your home or something, I haven’t. I can tell you’ve broken your guitar because at the job in Prague you didn’t have any extra luggage and I know you bring that silly guitar to your jobs-which I have to say I believe is a healthy and good thing! You have a creative stress-relieving outlet! Good for you!
Now, if I am in any way wrong about the guitar then you can now learn how to play one and gain a creative stress-relieving outlet.
Cheers, Arthur.
Eames.”
Arthur rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile. Arthur placed the card on the floor and went back to playing the guitar.
C- G 7th, -C
C- E diminished - G
G 7th- C diminished- G 7th- E diminished
G 7th- F diminished- C- G 7th
Repeat…
Have a holly jolly Christmas
It’s the best time of the year
I don’t know if there’ll be snow
But have a cup of cheer…
Hark! The Herald Angels Sing
Peace on earth and mercy mild
God and sinners reconciled
2002
Arthur is on legitimate business. Not dream-sharing business, but actual art gallery business. He has to keep up appearances, and so he’s now in Uffizi Gallery in Italy at some Gala party he’s been invited to-but he rarely enjoys these events. He is standing in front of “Madonna in Sorrow” by Giovanni Battista Salvi da Sassoferrto. Arthur stood there admiring the workmanship of the artist’s brush strokes.
“You’d think that since she’s ‘in sorrow’ he’d paint a few tear drops from her eyes or something, eh?” a familiar deep voice asked into Arthur’s left ear. Arthur flinched and turned quickly to find Eames standing behind him, dressed sharply in a well fitted tux and wearing a small smile on his face.
“Hello, Arthur,” the British man said, stepping over to Arthur’s left. Eames wore a simple black tux, complete with a white bow tie. Eames looked like James Bond, in a glove like fitted tux and his accent played up to sound proper and posh. He even wore a proper red carnation on his lapel. The British man’s jaws were clean shaved making Arthur wonder how it would feel against Arthur’s own cheeks, but the idea was quickly terminated after he saw Eames’ full lips curve into a teasing smirk.
“Mr. Eames,” Arthur said after closing his mouth and composing himself. He glanced around at the other guests then looked back on the painting. “What are you doing here?” Arthur asked, trying to sound indifferent.
“Hmmm-” Eames hummed out a smile as he looked at the Sassoerrto, “Working. You?”
“I was invited to this party,” Arthur said. “H- how are you?” he asked quietly.
Arthur last saw Eames nine months ago on an extraction job gone wrong. Eames was shot twice; before Arthur could manage the wheel, Eames somehow managed to shove Arthur out of the car before driving the car over a bridge.
For three months, Arthur was sure that Eames had died, and he found himself surprisingly in a fit of depression. (If the small voice in the back of Arthur’s head had told him that it actually wasn’t that surprising that he was depressed, then Arthur took no substantiation off that.) It was three months and two weeks after Arthur last saw Eames drive over a bridge that he received a plain stock paper in his mailbox, without a drawing on it, but just the simple words:
“I’m alive. I’m okay. See you soon.”
“Quite well actually, it’s my first job back. Thought I’d do something easy like an art heist, ya know, just to keep limber,” Eames said, turning to Arthur. Arthur frowned a bit, the feeling of anger started to grow in the middle of his chest. Arthur silently gave a small huff and turned back and stared at the Madonna, not really looking at it-just starting at anything but Eames.
“Aw, now, Arthur, no need to get angry with me,” Eames said, as if he knew what Arthur was thinking and feeling.
“I’m not; why would I be?” Arthur asked curtly, still staring holes through the painting. Eames gave an apologetic smile before looking down at his feet and restancing himself.
After a moment, Eames asked, “How do you like this painting? A fan of Italian Renaissance art?” Arthur peered over to the broader man and found that it was a genuine question.
“Yes, in fact I’m a big fan of Italian painters in general,” Arthur said quietly before draining his flute.
“Ah, good to know. What do you think of this particular painting though? As a gallery manager and an art critic?” Arthur wasn’t surprised Eames knew his real occupation. Arthur is never surprised now-Eames seemed to read him like an open book. From guessing what kind of collared shirts he preferred to what kinds of songs he played on his guitar, Eames always seemed to know; and that terrified him.
When they were in Prague nine months back, something had happened between the two of them, but Arthur couldn’t exactly pinpoint what it was. Just the way they spoke to each other and the way they sat and looked at each other, something was just . . . different.
“Well,” Arthur started; he licked his dry lips and the gestured to the Madonna’s face, “When you said she should be crying you couldn’t be more wrong, because she already is. Just look,” Arthur said as he pointed. “Look at her eyes, then look at her lips.”
“What of it?”
“Well, her eyes are heavy. Dark, filled with this deep solace, not cold, just lukewarm as if she’s sad but she’s trying to accept it as gracefully as she can. Her lips, though, are smiling. See? Just faintly. She’s sad her son is dead… but she knows he’s going to rise again. She knows that everything is going to be okay, and that the pain is just temporary.”
Eames hummed in acknowledgement, “Even though she knows she’s probably not going to see her son again? After he’s resurrected.”
Arthur slowly looked up at Eames whose dark blue eyes seemed to be glossed with something of ruefulness and the need for reconciliation.
“I don’t understand the question.”
Eames took a step closer to Arthur, leaned over and spoke while staring deep into Arthur’s eyes, “Is she smiling even knowing that she may never see her son again, after he’s resurrected? Smiling even though she may never see him again; yes he is alive now-probably going to heaven-but she’ll never see him as long as she lives. Is she still smiling knowing that fact?”
Arthur’s throat is parched and he can feel his breath sharply digging into his chest. Eames is too close to him and asking questions that obviously have a hidden meaning. Arthur didn’t want to answer-Eames had no right to ask anything of him. Throwing him out of a car so he could die like a martyr, to come back after all these months, pretend something hadn’t changed between them in Prague, and just . . .
“Don’t be angry with me, Arthur,” Eames recited again in a whispered. His hand came up to Arthur’s holding the flute. For a second, Arthur thought Eames was going to take his hand, but instead the forger’s hand fell on his wrist where the artful fingers played with Arthur’s silver cufflinks.
“I’m not angry,” Arthur said weakly in a broken breath. Eames gave a timid smile so unlike Eames’s usual confident smile. It was so unnatural to see Eames smile in such a manner that Arthur had to look away.
A moment later, Eames coughed and then asked, “So if say someone, this is totally theoretical of course, had painted a fake and swapped it with this original painting and had sent it to you, how would you feel about that?”
Arthur snapped his head up to Eames, bug-eyed.
“Don’t. You. Dare.”
“What? Why not? You like it! Give me 2 weeks and there’s your belated anniversary gift!” Eames whispered playfully as he gave Arthur’s cufflinks a flick. Arthur just glared at Eames, finding no amusement in what the British man was saying. “Okay, okay. Fine. Not funny-I will leave all art pieces aside from the one I was commissioned to steal,” Eames said with tongue in cheek, “Now, tell me about that painting, Arthur.”
Eames and Arthur didn’t speak of the nine months behind them; instead, they walked around the gallery as they traded their critique of each piece ‘till around 10:30. Then Eames smiled sadly at Arthur.
“I’m going to turn into an art thief now, Arthur; I’m afraid I have to leave you.”
“For a second, I thought you were going to say you were going to turn into a pumpkin,” Arthur said, giving an understanding smile.
Eames stared at Arthur, making Arthur slightly nervous again-like when he was opening his card sometime around this time last year. Arthur’s insides seemed to quiver at the way Eames’s dark blue-gray eyes seemed to burn into Arthur’s skin and make him feel hot all over.
“Arthur-” Eames started, his British vowels dragging the second syllable to his name, “when I pushed you out of the car in Prague. . . .”
“Don’t . . . don’t worry about it,” Arthur said, shutting his eyes away from Eames’s stare. Once he shut his eyes, all he could see was the frenzy of red bleeding out of Eames and the car leaping off the bridge.
“I . . . I sincerely thought I was going to die, Arthur. I wasn’t going to drag you in with me. You have to understand,” Eames said.
“I said it’s fine. It’s okay-I . . . I’m okay, you’re okay, and you have a job to do, yes?” Arthur said as he gave Eames a tight smile and a nod, which Eames didn’t seem to buy. Eames’s eyes were like the deep ends of the ocean-it was always so . . . moving. . . .
“Well then, take care, Arthur,” Eames said. Arthur simply nodded, not trusting his voice. Eames drew his hand and cupped the back of Arthur’s head, and for a split millisecond Arthur thought Eames was going to draw him closer and do . . . do something, but instead Eames simply lowered his hand and squeezed the exposed part of Arthur’s neck. As soon as their skin touched, Arthur felt a jolt go through him. It wasn’t until after he saw Eames disappear into the crowd of rich attendees that he flung his hand where Eames had touched him just to make sure that Eames’s hand wasn’t still there.
The phantom touch didn’t go away for hours.
When Arthur arrived back from Italy a week later, he found a mail notice stating he needed to go to the post office to pick up a rather large shipment.
There was no card that year, but on the back of the canvas Arthur could read Eames’s messy writing in pencil,
“I’m not going to tell you if this one is real or fake though you already know its not but if it was real how scandalous it is that I’ve written on the back of it?
Eames.”
We Need A Little Christmas Now
It's time we hung some tinsel on that evergreen bough.
For I've grown a little leaner,
Grown a little colder,
Grown a little sadder,
Grown a little older
And I need a little angel
Sitting on my shoulder,
Need a little Christmas now.
2003
He had to admit that he was a bit addicted to the dream-sharing-he’d heard of dream-sharing dens where people paid to go into deep sleep and just spend entire lifetimes in a dream, but Arthur refused to fall that deep.
Arthur had refused to take on any jobs this year-he felt that for the last three years he had been getting too deep into the criminal class, taking on too many jobs away from his “daytime” job. This had nothing to do with the last job he took with Eames in Prague, or just Eames in general. Well, that’s what Arthur told himself at night before going to bed, anyway.
Eames had called him a couple times throughout the year, asking if he wanted in as point or as an architect for a job, but every time Arthur refused. Eames never pushed for a reason why or called him out on his bullshit excuses-just teased him about how sad he was going to be working alone surrounded by pigs who would never fully appreciate the brilliancy of his plans. He always ended the call, “Maybe next time then, eh, Arthur?”
Arthur always replied back with, “Yeah. Sure. Of course.”
It’s Christmastime and Arthur has nothing to do. Everyone else around him at work (his on-paper work) had something planned. Places to go, parties to plan, people to see-but Arthur didn’t really have any close friends he kept in contact with, or family to visit. It was pitiful how Arthur had spent the last four days in his loft doing fuck nothing.
At first he decided to spoil himself for the holidays and went out in search of a new suit, but everywhere he went was filled with people and crying children and sick shoppers, so that he ended up borrowing bad movies and holing up in his apartment.
About two days ago Arthur started talking to himself, and he found it disconcerting. So, in order to feel better about himself, he dug out the stuffed elephant from his closet and set it down near him, never close but a reachable distance away, and spoke to it, like while watching Titanic he would turn to the spotted elephant and say, “Why doesn’t she just move over? Then he’ll be out of the water?”
It’s Christmas Eve and Arthur plans to get piss drunk so he can sleep through Christmas day. Arthur popped open his first bottle of wine, but before he could take a sip, there was a knock at his door.
“I’m just going to ignore that. There is no one in my life to come and visit me on Christmas Eve without calling first,” Arthur muttered to himself. “Probably carolers. . . .”
Another knock came upon his door, and it got louder and faster and faster until-
“WHAT?!” Arthur swung open his door to find Eames with his hand still held up in a knocking position. The forger smiled.
“Arthur! Is that scruff?”
“Wha- What are you doing here?” Arthur exclaimed, spreading his arms open to block the doorway as Eames tried to take a step forward.
“Oh, how rude, Arthur. I know you better than that!” Eames said, noticing the glass of wine still in Arthur’s hand. “Oh my, orange wine? Really Arthur? How pretentious!” Eames said delightedly as he plucked the glass out of Arthur’s hand and sipped it, pushing past Arthur and making his way to Arthur’s sofa. Arthur closed and locked the door behind them, grumbling. He fell short of yelling at Eames when he saw the man smiling smugly at him from his sofa, the spotted elephant in hand. “Admit it. He is precious, is he not?”
Arthur bit his lip, forcing his blush to die down and slowly counted to 10 before marching into his kitchen for harder liquor.
“Don’t drink, Arthur, that would spoil my gift!” Eames exclaimed from the sofa. Arthur sighed as he stopped pouring vodka into a tumbler. He pinched his nose and rubbed his temple. Moments later, he marched back into the living room demanding an explanation for Eames’s presence: “Seriously, what are you doing here?”
“Well, you’re a downright Grinch this year, aren’t you?”
“Just answer the question, Mr. Eames.”
“Just hand-delivering your gift, Arthur. It’s rather . . . um . . . particular and I couldn’t just mail it, you see,” Eames said as he motioned his head at his feet where a silver case lay. Arthur’s mouth opened a little.
“Is, is that a-”
“Yes, Arthur it is! Merry Christmas, Happy Anniversary! Want to try?”
They’re on a bridge-it’s snowing down gently.
“Is this the Thames?”
“Yes. One of my favorite walking places-well was. Can’t really get back into the country, I’m afraid. Had a bit of a tiff with one of the members in Parliament. Long story. . . . Anyways!” Eames said, clapping his hands once as he stood next to Arthur, admiring the view.
“The air smells so-”
“Damp,” Eames filled in, causing Arthur to roll his eyes and look at him with an exasperated expression.
“I was going to say crisp, fresh.”
“Oh, well that, too, then.”
“Come on-” Eames said as he hooked his arm with Arthur’s, leading him down along the street colorfully decorated with tinsels and wreathes.
“Everything is so colorful.”
“Yeah, we Europeans take Christmas very seriously,” Eames said, stressing the word “very.”
“It’s nice,” Arthur supplied as he looked at the decorations on each store window. “This is nice,” Arthur said as he looked at Eames and gave him a genuine smile. “Thank you.”
“Not a problem, Arthur,” Eames spoke “Why don’t you enjoy your dream, Arthur? Dream and make something festive and fun?”
Arthur gave Eames a beaming smile, eager to create something-it had been too long and Arthur was shaking with excitement to build.
Once Arthur finished building a green glass building in a shape of a Christmas tree, he turned to find out that Eames was no longer in the dream. About 30 minutes later in dream time, Arthur woke up on his sofa in a comfortable supine position with a blanket thrown over him and the spotted elephant wedged between his left elbow and the armrest. Arthur turned his head in the direction of the door to find a familiar envelope taped to the door. Arthur quickly unhooked himself from the PASIV and scampered his way to the door, snatching at the envelope.
Arthur felt a wave of heat creep up his face once he opened up the envelope to find the stock card with a quick sketch of himself sleeping on his sofa. The image of Eames, drawing him, sitting across from Arthur as he was dreaming, made Arthur feel somewhat exposed and yet so . . . so. . . .
Arthur slowly flipped the card over; it read:
“No need to be afraid, darling. Promise I won’t try to get killed anymore.
And everyone needs to celebrate Christmas, okay?
Happy dreams-
Eames.”
PART TWO CLICK HERE TO CONTINUE