New chapter! This is humour (rejoice!) and it almost borders on crack, but I think it's at least a little sane. Maybe.

This is my first fic for the Twelve Labours of Hercules challenge. (See Criminality for details -too lazy to explain-) "Arty and Timmy's Father-Son Relationship"

Disclaimer: Eoin Colfer has the rights to the Artemis Fowl series and anything originating from it.

Life's Lessons

Lesson Number Three: The Dangers of Eye-Rolling

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Artemis Fowl Senior (also known as Timmy)—head of the Fowl family line, genius in his own right, and businessman extraordinaire—was concerned.

Four-year-olds were very impressionable and for this reason Timmy had always been extra sensitive about how he conducted himself around Arty. He had to set a perfect example for his son because, after all, he was the primary role-model.

Or so he had hoped.

Butlers were generally well-mannered and controlled in almost every situation. If Arty had been associating with any other Butler, Timmy would not have cared less.

It was just bad luck that the youngest Butler at the moment had to be a spunky little girl.

This little girl in question had recently turned eight and was starting to grow what was unmistakably an attitude, becoming more prone to answering back or tossing her hair nowadays. It was getting on the elder Butlers' nerves. The Major had confided to Timmy once that he missed the old days when Juliet was peppy and sweet and (most of all) perfectly obedient. Now it was all, "why" this and "how come" that and sometimes even the petulant, "Do I have to?" This, according to the Major, was why only male Butlers were forced to become soldiers.

Timmy, whose trust in the Butler family was absolute, had no problem with letting Arty and Juliet play together. Butler (Domovoi) had encouraged it. Angeline thought it was positively precious. Besides, the two children had quickly grown fond of each other. It had seemed like a good idea.

That is until, some years later when Arty was four, Timmy caught his son doing something completely inappropriate and obscene.

Arty had rolled his eyes.

In his rage and panic, Timmy did not register exactly what his son was rolling his eyes at or that he and the rest of his family were in the middle of dinner, but even if he did he wouldn't have cared. He, Artemis Fowl the First, would not stand for that type of behavior in his household! So without a word of warning, Timmy leapt from his seat at the dinner table, scooped Arty from his chair, and stormed out of the dining room with his son tucked between his armpit (effectively cutting off Angeline's story about her afternoon trip to the city). Halfway into the entrance hall Timmy realized his mistake and strode calmly back to the room from whence he came.

"Where are my manners? I apologize, Angeline, but I must have a word with our son for a moment. Please excuse us."

And with that (and Arty now squirming under his arm), Timmy left once again for the entrance hall. On the outside he was the calm, calculating Fowl he had always been known to be, but internally he was fuming. His mind spun with restrained torrents of rage and he barely registered the undignified protests from his wayward, misguided son.

His son. His son. The progeny of the Fowl dynasty. His very own flesh and blood. To think that he could do something so vulgar was just...just...utterly shameful! Timmy took in a deep breath to calm his thoughts and fell into deep meditation, as he was sometimes prone to do when faced with a difficult problem. He tried to think rationally. Arty was a child so he could still be saved from his generation's barbaric—he mentally spat in disgust—ways. The difficulty lay in trying to get through to him. The boy was a genius (a toddler-genius, but a genius nonetheless) and very little affected him lately. Something in Timmy wilted at the thought that his boy was drifting farther and farther from his sphere of influence, but he stomped down on the feeling quickly. Nothing in a Fowl ever wilted.

Before his thoughts could drift to the dying plants in the balcony of his study (as they tended to do ever since Angeline brought that damnable garden into his work space, and although he detested it the fragrance did give his study a pleasant—oh heavens, was he becoming senile?), he was struck with a not-so-rare Moment of Brilliance. Like all Fowls, he would use the opposition's strengths to work in his favor. Arty's childish genius would be his downfall.

Nodding to himself with a newfound determination, Timmy carefully set his son on the polished marble floor before him. Arty, for his part, had been a very patient little boy and only sulked slightly after being suspended in the crook of his father's arm for the past five to six minutes while the older had stood there, completely caught up in his complicated Fowl Thought Process.

"Father, what-"

Arty was silenced by Timmy's stern look. Not many men with the name Timmy could command respect and fear with a squint of the eye, but this was no ordinary man. "Artemis," he began, trusting that his voice sounded as grave as possible. "What you have just done...is a very, very serious offense and you must never do it again."

Timmy smirked internally at the startled look on his son's face. He knew his boy better than most thought and he knew that the thing Arty hated most was being confused or left out of the loop. Brows forming small wrinkles in his still-smooth forehead, Arty asked, "I'm sorry, Father, but what are you talking about?"

Something inside Timmy wilted and he, again, squashed it. He stared at his son in disappointment. No tact whatsoever. "At the dinner table, son. I. Saw. You. Rolling your eyes." He said it with as much scorn as he could muster, which was a lot considering he was a Fowl.

This time Arty looked truly surprised, big blue eyes widening and speaking volumes of his emotions. Timmy made a mental note to start teaching the boy to be more discreet about his feelings.

"But, Father, what is wrong with that?"

"Artemis," the patriarch growled, staring down his nose at the confused child. "Not only is 'that' a despicable act, looked down upon by men of our status, but it is also something that puts you in danger."

The boy's mouth formed an "o". "Danger?"

Timmy stared. So innocent. So pure. So naïve.

All the easier to manipulate.

"Yes, son. Eye-rolling is forbidden for a reason." Before Arty had a chance to point out that no, actually, eye-rolling has never been forbidden, Timmy ploughed on. "It puts the eye-roller in risk of something even medicine cannot fix, something that can only be remedied by expensive, painful surgery."

Arty stared at him with a mix of wonder and fear. Oh, this was too easy. "In risk of what, Father?" Timmy almost couldn't hold back the triumphant smirk as he took his cue and delivered the final blow.

"Cataracts."

Arty blinked in slow recognition. Timmy watched in sick amusement as his son's features shifted from confusion to understanding to disgust to blatant fear. "But...I...how?"

Timmy went into Da Lecturing Mode. "Constant upwards movements of the eye prevent the lens from staying moist and clear. It gets jarred and eventually the proteins in your eye will break up and form a cloudy film, effectively hindering vision. Many eye-rollers have fallen victim to cataracts and often become blind. It's no surprise, really, since the risks are little-known to most people."

When he finished, Timmy was satisfied by the look of barely concealed horror on Arty's face. The child's limited knowledge on the subject and willingness to learn, joined with his youthful ignorance, made certain that Arty would never roll his eyes again. Timmy mentally gave himself a congratulatory pat on the back.

"Now do you understand the seriousness of this?"

"Y-yes, Father."

"And you'll never roll your eyes again?"

"Of course, Father."

Timmy nodded gravely, but he was beaming inside. "Good boy, Artemis."

That night Timmy would sleep soundly.

---------------

The next morning…

"Juliet! You can't do that, you could get cataracts!"

A/N: Short, but sweet. Kind of.

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Ta ta!

-Lulu