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“A real tree in a pot was a great idea.” Sarcasm dripped from Arthur’s words like blood from an arterial wound. Which, as it happened, he knew far more about – as in the inflicting of - than trees. “Didn’t it occur to you that the pot full of soil and tree would be heavy?”
Eames loved Arthur. He really did. But did the darling man have to pick this minute to complain about the weight of their Norwegian Spruce when they were trying to wrestle it into the sitting room? “To you, pet,” Eames huffed as he hefted his side of the pot, wincing as the needles prickled the skin of his cheek.
With much cursing and scowling the two men finally managed to lower the tree into the decorative pot they’d positioned earlier. Arthur’s idea, naturally, since any Point Man worth his salt would be sure to forward plan. They stood beside the tree for several minutes, catching their breaths, mopping their brows and plucking the odd pine needle out of flesh and clothing.
“Right, I’ll pop the kettle on, darling,” Eames beamed cheerfully, his ire forgotten at the prospect of a nice cuppa with a home-made mince pie and clotted cream. Which, inevitably, disgusted Arthur, but he’d be happy with a slice of Eames’ delicious home-made carrot cake with his beverage instead.
~*~
“For goodness sake, Arthur,” Eames sighed. “Haven’t you ever decorated a Christmas tree before?”
“Once, when I was little.”
“Only once?”
“Mom banned me from doing it after that.”
Eames rolled his eyes to the Heavens as he removed his boyfriend’s pathetic attempts at tree-dressing from the offended pine. “Yes, I can see why. It’s an art form requiring a degree of imagination, pet. Watch and learn.”
The Forger proceeded to give the Point Man a lesson in decorating the festive Spruce. When he was finally done, stepping back to admire his handiwork even if he did say so himself, Arthur had to admit the tree looked gorgeous, festooned with lights, tinsel, baubles and some ancient Christmas tree decorations that had arrived at the new house, carefully protected with bubble wrap, nestled within Eames’ haphazardly-packed boxes. Somehow, miraculously, they had survived the ordeal. Apparently, Arthur had thought at the time, the man had a sentimental side, and had kept some of the festive decorations from his early years. He really was an enigma and Arthur was seeing facets to the Forger he’d never imagined were there.
~*~
They stood in front of the tree, Eames with an arm around Arthur’s waist, and touched their eggnog cups in a toast. Old family recipe from the American side which Eames was much taken with. The Point Man was trying not to shudder at the memory of his boyfriend wanting to buy the glass cups with moose antlers instead of a sensible handle. It had taken all of his negotiating skills to dissuade the Englishman, though Arthur was dreading opening one of his gifts which currently resided under the Christmas tree because it felt suspiciously like a scarf. Probably something in a colour and pattern so blindingly awful that he, Arthur, would want to poke his own eyes out.
“Happy Christmas, darling,” Eames beamed. “I have a feeling this is going to be a wonderful Christmas."
“It can’t be any worse than last year.”
Eames pouted. “It wasn’t my fault the tree fell over and cracked Dom on the head.”
Arthur raised an eyebrow.
“Okay, I did fall against it but that was only because someone had spiked the mulled wine.”
“The mulled wine wasn’t spiked, you idiot. You just had too much of it.”
Eames’ plump lips stretched in a sheepish smile. “I didn’t miss that grin you tried to hide as the tree bonked him on the head, even if I might have been a bit squiffy, but I did the rest of you a favour by puncturing Dom’s ridiculous pomposity.”
Arthur’s lips twitched. He couldn’t deny that he, Ariadne and Yusuf had found the incident rather amusing and it did prise their Extractor off his high horse; the one named Pompous.
"You, Mr Eames, are incorrigible,” Arthur informed him with a grin while planting an affectionate kiss on those extraordinarily kissable lips.
“One of my many virtues, darling,” Eames replied, sneaking a hand down Arthur’s back and fondling his adorable bottom.
Taking their eggnog over to the sofa, Arthur picked up the remote control and clicked on the TV. As Eames had promised there was a broadcast on BBC 2 of carols from King’s College, Cambridge. Arthur was a thoroughly modern man but he loved the traditions of Christmas spent in England; the Christmas Eve carol services, midnight mass which they would attend later at St. Gabriel’s Church, after Eames had stuffed their goose for their Christmas dinner the next day, and first thing in the morning the exchange of gifts and, with luck, morning sex.
“Happy, darling?” Eames asked as he planted a gentle kiss on his boyfriend’s forehead.
“Very, Eames.”
After taking another sip from his eggnog Eames pulled Arthur closer. “Next year we could invite the guys and the sprogs to spend Christmas here with us,” he suggested. “When I was growing up my sisters always brought their kids over to Mum and Dad’s house for Christmas Day and it was magical. And those little Cobb sprogs are utterly adorable. Would you like that, Arthur?”
Arthur smiled at the thought of the little Cobb children, sadly motherless but now with a father who had risked his life – and those of his colleagues, but that was grudgingly entirely forgiven now – to return to them. It made Arthur feel uncharacteristically sentimental. “Yes, I‘d like that, Eames.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do, pet.”
“We could even invite them all to stay for a few days in the summer now we have a lovely little garden for barbecues and for the kiddos to play in,” Arthur suggested.
“Brilliant idea,” Eames agreed affably. “We have all these rooms it would be criminal if we didn’t make good use of them to enjoy the company of our friends and families. Even if Cobb is a twat; at least he’s a twat with lovely children.”
“And you just might have unpacked all your boxes by then.”