Christmas Post #5: Arthur/Eames + cookies
Dec. 6th, 2010 11:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ifeelbetterTitle: What Christmas Means To Me
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ifeelbetter
Disclaimer: I own nothing of value. Not even cookies.
Summary: When it turns out Eames isn’t one for holiday cheer, Arthur starts putting to jolly back into the holidays—via cookies. And research.
Notes: Forladygrendel for this prompt: Eames/Arthur story where Eames is the one who has a hard time getting into the Christmas spirit, but at least Arthur is there to help him. (PS – “Pecan puffs” is what we call them in my family. The internet tells me they’re called Mexican Wedding Cakes but, whoa, let’s not go there.)
"This biscuit is rubbish," Eames said, pulling a face. He inspected the cookie in his hand. "What is this--candied death?"
Arthur flicked the spatula at him and—because he was the best in the business and never missed—a clump of cookie dough hit Eames right on the nose.
"You could try not eating them," he said primly. "You always have that option."
Eames took another bite and grimaced again. "They're so wretched, though," he said. "It's like I have to keep eating, just to see if it's possible to get any worse."
"Shut up. My mother says my cookies are delightful," Arthur said. "You just don't like candied cherries."
"Darling, no one likes candied cherries. They're revolting."
"No, really, stop eating them then," Arthur said, tugging at the end of the cookie as Eames tried to stuff it into his mouth. "Just stop eating them and then you won't have to tell me how awful they are."
"I like telling you how awful they are," Eames said and it was total truth. He looked more chipper than he had in days.
Arthur had been amazed to find that Eames—the man who tried to drape Cobb's entire house in fake cobwebs for Halloween and who sent a text on Thanksgiving to everyone on his phone with a picture of him "co0kin turkey, yo"—did not like Christmas. Every other holiday under the sun, yes. Christmas, shockingly, no.
But Arthur had always loved Christmas. He liked the tradition, the excuse to see family, the way complete strangers ended up wishing each other well on street corners, and the giant lie all the children of the world were conned into believing. He liked every single piece of the holiday.
Though even he had to admit that his grandmother's recipe for Santa's Whiskers cookies was not something he did for an actually pleasant eating experience. (He asked her once—though she was senile by that point—if anyone actually liked the candied cherries and she'd pinched his cheek and told him not to be such a squirrel. So.)
"Eat this instead," Arthur instructed Eames and dropped a pecan puff into his hand.
"You want me to eat a sugared snowball," Eames said, doubtfully. He eyed the pastry.
"Eat it and then tell me, on a scale of 1 to 10, how much you like it," Arthur said, pulling out his moleskin. He flipped to the page where he was keeping track of Eames's taste in cookies. Next to Santa's Whiskers, he wrote, -100. Then he underlined negative sign for emphasis.
"Oh my god," Eames said, watching Arthur, "you're making a chart for my taste in biscuits, aren't you?"
"No," Arthur lied. "This is...something else. Research. For a thing."
Eames popped the pecan puff into his mouth—making his cheek bulge like a hamster—and grinned. Arthur slid the notebook into his back pocket.
"Youf magkinh af scharch," Eames said with his mouth full.
It was testament to how much Arthur had to put up with on a daily basis that he understood every word. "I'm not making a chart," he insisted.
Eames's had lost track of the conversation, though, because he was having a very obviously positive reaction to the cookie in his mouth.
"Whaf ib vhis?" he asked in awe, his jaw dropping open enough that Arthur could see the partially chewed cookie on his tongue.
"You're disgusting," he told Eames because some things need saying. He leaned over to tap Eames's chin until he shut his mouth. It left a flour-y fingerprint right in the middle of Eames's chin and Arthur sort of had to smile at that.
Eames swallowed exaggeratedly like a cartoon. “That was amazing,” he told Arthur seriously.
“Pecans,” Arthur said. He wiped one of his hands on his pant-leg and then thumbed his flour-y fingerprint off of Eames’s chin. “You like pecans in your cookies, apparently.”
“Is that going on the chart?” Eames said, reaching into Arthur’s back pocket to find his moleskin. Well. Mostly to find his moleskin.
“Fine, yes, I made a chart,” Arthur groused. Eames flipped through the notebook until he found his page.
“You’re putting a lot of thought into this,” Eames said.
Perhaps the bar graph had been a bit over the top. Arthur shrugged. “I wanted you to—you know,” he said, waving his hand vaguely, and shrugged again. “I like Christmas.”
“I’m getting that,” Eames said. He flipped through the rest of the notebook. “You have an attack strategy for Macy’s?”
Arthur wasn’t even a little embarrassed about that one. “You don’t go into a mall in December without one,” he said gravely. “Definitely not department stores.”
Eames laughed. “I think I’m beginning to see why you like this holiday so much,” he said. “Attack strategies, research, defensive maneuvers—it’s like a list of Arthur’s Favorite Things.”
Arthur sighed. Eames was still missing the point. (Well. Some of the point. Arthur really did enjoy the strategizing for the mall. He saved his gift shopping for post-Black Friday some years just because of the thrill of it all.)
“I’m going to make pecan cups next,” Arthur decided. “Since you like pecans so much.”
Arthur was never sure when moments like this were going to happen—when Eames would look at him adoringly, like he’d done something inexplicably wonderful—because he was so busy, most of the time, being annoyed with Eames and everything about him. It took a lot of work to stay annoyed because, really, he was hardly ever annoyed—mostly, he just didn’t want to encourage him. So he hardly ever analyzed the whys and the hows of these moments.
Eames pulled him closer by a finger through his belt-loop.
“What did I do to deserve you?” he asked in that tone that most people thought—and Arthur had once been fooled too—was mocking or jovial or something. It wasn’t, though; it was something much softer.
“Something awful,” Arthur joked. Sometimes he wondered the same thing. Sometimes he came up with the same answer, in all seriousness.
Eames knew it, knew that Arthur wasn’t entirely joking. But Eames didn’t translate into language all that well—not really—so he just kissed Arthur in a way that spoke much more clearly.
Author:
ifeelbetterDisclaimer: I own nothing of value. Not even cookies.
Summary: When it turns out Eames isn’t one for holiday cheer, Arthur starts putting to jolly back into the holidays—via cookies. And research.
Notes: For
ladygrendel for this prompt: Eames/Arthur story where Eames is the one who has a hard time getting into the Christmas spirit, but at least Arthur is there to help him. (PS – “Pecan puffs” is what we call them in my family. The internet tells me they’re called Mexican Wedding Cakes but, whoa, let’s not go there.)"This biscuit is rubbish," Eames said, pulling a face. He inspected the cookie in his hand. "What is this--candied death?"
Arthur flicked the spatula at him and—because he was the best in the business and never missed—a clump of cookie dough hit Eames right on the nose.
"You could try not eating them," he said primly. "You always have that option."
Eames took another bite and grimaced again. "They're so wretched, though," he said. "It's like I have to keep eating, just to see if it's possible to get any worse."
"Shut up. My mother says my cookies are delightful," Arthur said. "You just don't like candied cherries."
"Darling, no one likes candied cherries. They're revolting."
"No, really, stop eating them then," Arthur said, tugging at the end of the cookie as Eames tried to stuff it into his mouth. "Just stop eating them and then you won't have to tell me how awful they are."
"I like telling you how awful they are," Eames said and it was total truth. He looked more chipper than he had in days.
Arthur had been amazed to find that Eames—the man who tried to drape Cobb's entire house in fake cobwebs for Halloween and who sent a text on Thanksgiving to everyone on his phone with a picture of him "co0kin turkey, yo"—did not like Christmas. Every other holiday under the sun, yes. Christmas, shockingly, no.
But Arthur had always loved Christmas. He liked the tradition, the excuse to see family, the way complete strangers ended up wishing each other well on street corners, and the giant lie all the children of the world were conned into believing. He liked every single piece of the holiday.
Though even he had to admit that his grandmother's recipe for Santa's Whiskers cookies was not something he did for an actually pleasant eating experience. (He asked her once—though she was senile by that point—if anyone actually liked the candied cherries and she'd pinched his cheek and told him not to be such a squirrel. So.)
"Eat this instead," Arthur instructed Eames and dropped a pecan puff into his hand.
"You want me to eat a sugared snowball," Eames said, doubtfully. He eyed the pastry.
"Eat it and then tell me, on a scale of 1 to 10, how much you like it," Arthur said, pulling out his moleskin. He flipped to the page where he was keeping track of Eames's taste in cookies. Next to Santa's Whiskers, he wrote, -100. Then he underlined negative sign for emphasis.
"Oh my god," Eames said, watching Arthur, "you're making a chart for my taste in biscuits, aren't you?"
"No," Arthur lied. "This is...something else. Research. For a thing."
Eames popped the pecan puff into his mouth—making his cheek bulge like a hamster—and grinned. Arthur slid the notebook into his back pocket.
"Youf magkinh af scharch," Eames said with his mouth full.
It was testament to how much Arthur had to put up with on a daily basis that he understood every word. "I'm not making a chart," he insisted.
Eames's had lost track of the conversation, though, because he was having a very obviously positive reaction to the cookie in his mouth.
"Whaf ib vhis?" he asked in awe, his jaw dropping open enough that Arthur could see the partially chewed cookie on his tongue.
"You're disgusting," he told Eames because some things need saying. He leaned over to tap Eames's chin until he shut his mouth. It left a flour-y fingerprint right in the middle of Eames's chin and Arthur sort of had to smile at that.
Eames swallowed exaggeratedly like a cartoon. “That was amazing,” he told Arthur seriously.
“Pecans,” Arthur said. He wiped one of his hands on his pant-leg and then thumbed his flour-y fingerprint off of Eames’s chin. “You like pecans in your cookies, apparently.”
“Is that going on the chart?” Eames said, reaching into Arthur’s back pocket to find his moleskin. Well. Mostly to find his moleskin.
“Fine, yes, I made a chart,” Arthur groused. Eames flipped through the notebook until he found his page.
“You’re putting a lot of thought into this,” Eames said.
Perhaps the bar graph had been a bit over the top. Arthur shrugged. “I wanted you to—you know,” he said, waving his hand vaguely, and shrugged again. “I like Christmas.”
“I’m getting that,” Eames said. He flipped through the rest of the notebook. “You have an attack strategy for Macy’s?”
Arthur wasn’t even a little embarrassed about that one. “You don’t go into a mall in December without one,” he said gravely. “Definitely not department stores.”
Eames laughed. “I think I’m beginning to see why you like this holiday so much,” he said. “Attack strategies, research, defensive maneuvers—it’s like a list of Arthur’s Favorite Things.”
Arthur sighed. Eames was still missing the point. (Well. Some of the point. Arthur really did enjoy the strategizing for the mall. He saved his gift shopping for post-Black Friday some years just because of the thrill of it all.)
“I’m going to make pecan cups next,” Arthur decided. “Since you like pecans so much.”
Arthur was never sure when moments like this were going to happen—when Eames would look at him adoringly, like he’d done something inexplicably wonderful—because he was so busy, most of the time, being annoyed with Eames and everything about him. It took a lot of work to stay annoyed because, really, he was hardly ever annoyed—mostly, he just didn’t want to encourage him. So he hardly ever analyzed the whys and the hows of these moments.
Eames pulled him closer by a finger through his belt-loop.
“What did I do to deserve you?” he asked in that tone that most people thought—and Arthur had once been fooled too—was mocking or jovial or something. It wasn’t, though; it was something much softer.
“Something awful,” Arthur joked. Sometimes he wondered the same thing. Sometimes he came up with the same answer, in all seriousness.
Eames knew it, knew that Arthur wasn’t entirely joking. But Eames didn’t translate into language all that well—not really—so he just kissed Arthur in a way that spoke much more clearly.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-12-06 04:26 pm (UTC)OMG OMG OMG best line ever!
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Date: 2010-12-07 02:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-06 05:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-07 02:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-06 05:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-07 02:19 am (UTC):)
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Date: 2010-12-06 08:54 pm (UTC)"No," Arthur lied. "This is...something else. Research. For a thing."
If only I wasn't allergic to pecans. I didn't used to be allergic, so I remember liking them (before they started making my mouth burn), so the cookies sound really good. :P
no subject
Date: 2010-12-07 02:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-07 06:00 pm (UTC)It started as a mild allergy to walnuts, and has now moved over to pecans too (guess they're related? they look similar). I hadn't had baklava in years and got excited it was on a menu, completely forgetting it's often made with walnuts. D'oh! Fortunately, some places make baklava with pistachios, so I can still have it occasionally.
Thankfully, it just causes and awful burning sensation and not swelling or the need for hospitals...though it gets worse with every exposure. Eeek!
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Date: 2010-12-07 06:23 pm (UTC)There are certain foodstuffs--hamburgers, mostly--that I sometimes have nightmares about developing an allergy to. I would cry so very much if I couldn't have a burger ever again.
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Date: 2010-12-07 06:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-07 06:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-07 09:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-07 02:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-07 06:24 pm (UTC)