This was written for the aeholidaybang holi-daily challenge. aeholidaybang dot tumblr dot com.
Three days before Christmas, Eames gets a phone call.
"You really know how to put people in the holiday spirit, Eames. Your little stunt in Vienna just got a price put on your head." Arthur's voice is terse, but Eames can hear pride underlying his annoyance as well.
Eames isn't surprised about the hit. For all his self-deprecating humor, he knows exactly the effect that he has on people, and he certainly knows the effect that anonymously reporting his extractor employer to an old military contact of his was going to have. But that's what should happen to extractors who agree to work on children.
"Thank you, Arthur. I'll be sure to handle it and be home in time for Christmas."
"There's a particularly nasty Russian outside your mother's house right now. I'm in the neighborhood."
Eames hasn't seen his mother in years. She—along with the rest of his family—has no idea where he is and he wants to keep it that way. As painful as it is, it is a far better alternative to getting them killed by coming around for the family holiday drop-ins.
The unspoken "I'll handle it" hangs in the air between the two men. Eames could insist that this is his problem, that he will handle it, but he doesn't. He can imagine Arthur's face right now; his jaw set in determination with just enough softness and affection to say "Let me do this for you. Let me help you." It's Arthur's way of being there for him, of telling Eames that he's a dear friend. Not quite what Eames really wanted, but it would have to do for now.
"I'll drop the phone and text you the new number," Eames says lightly, trying to hide his worry. Arthur hears it anyway.
"I will."
"She'll probably be so excited to see you that she'll barely miss me. You made quite the impression on your visit."
Arthur had met Eames' mother on his last visit to London. They had been meeting for a job and Eames' mother invited her son for tea. Arthur had tagged along after much insistence from his co-worker. Between the three-piece suit, scones, and perfect manners, Eames' mother had been more than impressed.
"He's quite the catch, dear," she had told Eames in the kitchen. He didn't bother correcting her assumption. He could always do it later, and she had seemed so hopeful. It would be a lie to say that Eames wasn't hopeful, too.
"Stay safe, Mr. Eames," Arthur tells him, interrupting Eames' reverie. The exasperated affection in Arthur's voice warms Eames to his toes.
"Do hurry, darling."
For the first time in years, Eames spends Christmas Eve alone. He's in Atlantic City, but he doesn't leave his motel room. Instead, he watches A Christmas Story on TV and is grateful—for the first time in a long time—that he can't dream naturally. He's almost positive that it would have been all leg lamps and bunny suits.
Before he drifts off, he picks up his new cell phone and calls Arthur. The call goes straight to voicemail and he hangs up immediately, not wanting to nag. As soon as he ends the call, he regrets the decision and presses redial. Again, it goes to voicemail.
"Arthur, this Christmas movie is frightening. There are leg lamps and bunny suits, and while you insist I have questionable fashion sense, even I know those are horrifying. Do call me, darling."
When he wakes up in the morning, he has no messages or missed calls. He ventures out of his room in baggy sweats and a hoodie, looking more like a gym rat than a world-class conman. The slot machines are loud and mindless, a poor distraction from the being alone. He manages to make a total of fifty dollars in quarters off the slots before he heads back to his room and orders Chinese take-out from the only place that's open on Christmas. He eats too much moo shoo pork and wishes he had thought to pick up a bottle of whiskey. He checks his phone again—nothing. He dials Arthur again and leaves another message.
"Arthur, I'm alone and my hotel has a sad, tiny tree with multicolored lights that remind me of the only time I ever tried hallucinogens. Really, you must rescue me from this terrible fate. Merry Christmas. Do call me, darling."
When he wakes up from his food coma the next morning, he has a text message waiting. Somehow, he had missed his alarm in the night.
Sorry you had to spend Christmas alone. I'm working on it. I promise. Stay safe, Mr. Eames.
After that, he decides to head north to New York City. Arthur has an apartment there, and with any luck, this whole ordeal will be over soon. Still, he takes his time getting there, due in part to holiday traffic. He stops at a Best Western beside the interstate and stays there for two days. The first day, watches American football and decides that it's a sport he could really get into. Before he falls asleep that night, he calls Arthur.
"Arthur, I'm still alone in my hotel room and while watching muscley men tackle one another is entertaining, I would much prefer to hear from you. It's been too long since we've seen one another. Do call me, darling."
Thirty minutes later, his phone chimes. It's a text from Arthur.
Sorry I missed your call. I'm getting closer. Enjoy your muscley men and stay safe, Mr. Eames.
The next day there's a wreck on the interstate and he doesn't want to risk having his picture taken by the news coverage. He ventures to the liquor store across the street and spends the rest of the day in the motel again and watches more football, though it has lost some of its appeal. Muscles are all well and good, but he much prefers his man—er, men—with a slimmer build. After too much whiskey, he calls Arthur again.
"Arthur, I'm alone again and it's so boring. These football men are built all wrong and its not as entertaining today. I've had far too much to drink. I'd like to see you soon. Just to know you're safe, you know. Do call me, darling."
The reply is almost immediate.
On a stakeout. Couldn't answer. Almost there, I promise. Stay safe, Mr. Eames.
They follow the same pattern for the next few days. Eames calls and leaves a message, each one getting dangerously closer to revealing things he isn't sure he's ready to reveal just yet. They all end the same way: "Do call me, darling." Then Arthur will reply with a text that is far too brief, promising that he's hurrying. They all end the same way: Stay safe, Mr. Eames.
He finally makes it to New York City on New Year's Eve. Arthur has an apartment in the city, he knows. It's probably armed with the best security that money can buy plus any extra features that Arthur felt necessary. It isn't the sort of place that you waltz into unannounced and unprepared. So, naturally, he calls Arthur.
"Arthur, I'm recalling a certain apartment that you have. You know, the one that is armed to the teeth. I'd love to borrow it for a bit since I'm all alone for New Years. Of you could come home and see me. Do call me, darling."
I remotely disarmed it. You're free to enter and arm the security system behind you. Stay safe, Mr. Eames.
Eames arrives at the apartment and it's everything that he remembered. All clean, smooth lines and high-end fabrics. Books on dream theory are on the shelves and M.C. Escher prints are on the walls. It's perfectly Arthur.
Night falls on the city and Eames turns on the television to watch the New Year's Eve countdown. Midnight comes, the ball drops, and he gets the urge to call Arthur again. He's already called today, but he can't resist.
"Arthur, I'm alone in your apartment on New Year's Eve. There's something wrong with this picture. I'd love to see you. Do call me, darling."
As soon as he hangs up, the phone rings. He picks it up immediately.
"Sorry I missed your call," Arthur says. "I'm close, I promise."
"I don't want you close," Eames says, fully aware that he sounds a bit like a spoiled child. "I want you here."
"I'm close, okay? Almost there." The phone clicks and the call ends.
Suddenly Eames is aware that he isn't alone in the room. He silently curses himself, furious that he's eluded them for so long only to have them catch up with him now. In Arthur's apartment of all places. He hopes they don't leave his body there for Arthur to find. That's not how Eames would have Arthur remember him.
"You're not being very safe, Mr. Eames."
Eames starts at the sound of Arthur's voice; he turns to see the smaller man standing in the kitchen, his arms folded over his chest. He's wearing the same charcoal grey three-piece suit he'd worn to see Eames' mother and he's the most beautiful thing Eames has ever seen.
Before he can think better of it, Eames is across the room, pulling Arthur into his arms and pressing his lips to the other man's. It's rougher than Eames intended for it to be, but after a moment he realizes that Arthur is kissing him back, and giving as good as he's getting. Arthur is pressing his body closer to Eames', his heart hammering in his chest. When they finally—reluctantly—pull away, they're both breathless.
"I thought you were—" Eames starts, his forehead resting against Arthur's.
"I finished up this morning. Apparently the gentleman who put the hit on you has upset several people. I just had to put them in contact with each other and give them a location," Arthur explains as he pulls Eames towards the sofa in the living room.
"It's over?"
"All done. I made you spend Christmas Eve and Christmas all alone. I couldn't very well make you spend New Year's by yourself, could I?"
Eames grins invitingly. "Well, you could..."
"I suppose you're free to go, if you want," Arthur says. Then he gives him yet another kiss and pushes him down on the sofa. And just in case Eames needed a reminder of why he should stay, Arthur climbs onto the sofa, too and kisses him soundly.
"No," Eames answers breathlessly. "No, I'd rather stay, darling."