Chapter Text
“Trim the tree,” Arthur echoes as Dom disappears out the door with the kids in tow bundled up in so many layers they’re like the round little snowmen in the front yard, only more shrill and more devious, more prone to teaming up with Eames to scare the bejesus out of Arthur when he rounds a corner. “Like, hang up ornaments and that – furry stuff.”
“Tinsel.” Ariadne looks at him askance as she pads away into the family room, feet stuffed into plush reindeer slippers. “You’re acting like you’ve never seen tinsel before.”
Eames is perched on the sofa when they walk in, scrolling on his phone, eyebrows knitted in concentration, wearing a Christmas sweater that says Happy Christmas, because it’s just like him – to go out of his way to be English and gripe about the English in the same goddamn breath.
“Do we want to know Martha Stewart’s tree-trimming secrets?” he asks, sounding deadly serious. “Or perhaps 16 ways to trim your Christmas tree like a pro, brought to you by HGTV? Find the perfect topper. Well, now I’m not so sure they’re still talking about trimming a tree.”
“Guys! It’s tree-trimming, not rocket science!” Ariadne snatches Eames’s phone away and tosses it onto the cushions to drive the point home. “You two string up the lights and tinsel, and I’ll unpack the ornaments.”
“We have our marching orders,” Eames says to Arthur, smile lopsided like the letters on his sweater, one of those rare, painful instances when his charm isn’t overdone and laid on thick, it’s pure and just a little bit sweet.
Arthur bends down abruptly to grab the tangle of lights, muttering, “I’ve seen tinsel before.”
They’re about halfway up the tree when Ariadne starts flailing her arms from her spot on the floor, lap overflowing with ornaments.
“Wait, wait, wait! You’re supposed to start from the top and work your way down, oh my god, have you guys never trimmed a tree before?”
“Um,” Arthur says eloquently.
Eames is scratching the back of his head, looking sheepish and unsure – and so fucking endearing Arthur forgets all about the secret he’s been trying to keep buried since he knocked on Dom’s door twelve hours ago, hands laden with presents because that’s how it works, he’s heard.
“Well,” Eames starts, then pauses, “no, actually.”
Ariadne blinks owlishly. “Wait, what? Really? Never?”
And Arthur, no longer feeling like the exception, no longer feeling alone, confesses, “neither have I,” still looking at Eames, who’s wearing that smile again, brightening by degrees.
Then Eames turns to Ariadne and shrugs. “It’s our lot in life, we orphans.”
They’ve only ever brought it up once, one of those off-the-cuff remarks that yank hard at your roots but it’s nothing you haven’t felt before.
“And I don’t know any Christmas carols. Not one damn word,” Arthur says, because the cat’s out of the bag now and he has nothing else to lose.
“Never laid out cookies for Santa. Or hung stockings over the fireplace. Do people still do that?” Eames adds, eyes laughing like it’s a game, to see who’s the more miserable asshole, and maybe like he’s telling Arthur, your story, darling, I know it well.
“Okay, then,” Ariadne finally speaks up, gnawing at her bottom lip, “what the hell are we waiting for? Let’s start making up for lost time.”