Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sea-Tac Airport is a mess of broody college students and harried families dragging their children to and fro. With Christmas being a week away, naturally the entire world considers this an ideal time to flee their perfectly adequate residences to descend upon unwitting relatives. And it would seem that every last one of them saw fit to make their way through this particular airport.

Squeaky baggage wheels and jostling elbows.

Wailing babies.

Garbled squawks over the PA.

The recycled air carries the funk of overheated bodies over the tops of the crowds, adding the cherry to an already intolerable situation.

The atmosphere does nothing to soothe Eames’s frazzled sensibilities. Very shortly, he’ll be in the home of Arthur’s parents. Meeting Arthur’s parents. In their home. For a week.

Bloody hell.

“Seriously?”

“Shut up.”

“Only it’s a bit… obvious, wouldn’t you say?”

“My dad thinks he’s witty.”

“Not saying it isn’t a wonderful name, as names go.”

“Eames.”

“Kind of cute, honestly.”

“I will cut you.”

“Come on, surely even you must admit—”

“Admit what, Bryce?”

“Well, now, that’s just uncalled for.”

“Not from where I’m standing.”

“I must confess, though, I feel a trifle disappointed.”

“How’s that?”

“I always imagined your last name was a highly classified national secret. Now I find out you’re simply embarrassed.”

“I’m very highly classified, thank you very much.”

“Of course you are, pet.”

“Totally need-to-know.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I bet even the president doesn’t know I exist.”

“I’ve no doubt that’s true.”

“…that’s not what I meant.”

Eames is nervous. In truth, he’s moved so beyond nervous that he doesn’t have the vocabulary to express the panicked, pins and needles feeling just under his skin.

Arthur, bless him, appears oblivious to Eames’s mild state of hysteria as he goes about navigating them out of airport traffic and into a soul-sucking amount of gridlock. And Eames is content to let that obliviousness continue for as long as it can.

He’s not exactly keen to discuss his feelings on this matter.

Eames’s last “family” Christmas had been far from pleasant. He’d been nine or ten—hard to remember now—sat at the dining table with a formal spread and his father at the end, working through the holiday ham without so much as a glance for his son. There had been no presents, no tree or fairy lights like he’d seen on the telly. Just silence and over-salted potatoes.

The following year, even the ham and potatoes had gone away since his father decided it wasn’t worth paying the staff overtime to work the holidays. Christmas dinners became peanut butter sandwiches or whatever else Eames could cobble together. As it spared him an evening in his father’s company, Eames hadn’t really minded.

After enlisting, Christmas was normally spent trolling pubs and nightclubs in whichever city he was based at, rabble-rousing with his fellow soldiers and whatever kind strangers he happened to meet. That tradition didn’t change much when he left the military, just that the locations became more exotic and the strangers less kind.

None of that has gifted him with the foundation necessary for spending a week in the suburbs, sharing the holidays with his lover’s parents.

Surely there’ll be awkward dinners and a stilted gift exchange where Eames will be forced to gush enthusiastically over a hastily purchased aftershave gift set. But what if there are probing questions about their relationship? What if Arthur’s parents want an invitation to merry old England for next year’s hols? What if there’s Christmas carols, for god’s sake?

Much of Eames’s anxiety, he acknowledges, stems from not knowing what to expect of Arthur’s parents. He might love Arthur more than his own life, but he’s far from blind to the man’s… quirks. His sweet pigeon is a lovely man, for sure, but he’s also a high-strung, nitpicking, trigger-happy paranoid with tendencies towards world domination. Even amongst Americans, these traits couldn’t all be the product of secret government brainwashing, so it only stands to reason that Arthur was a peculiar bloke even before getting recruited to break into people’s minds. Certainly, then, the people that raised him could only be as extraordinary and terrifying as their son. Eames is thinking paramilitary survivalists, maybe, or millionaire business moguls. Although Gomez and Morticia Addams seem just as likely.

What doesn’t seem at all likely—not even a remote possibility until he’s standing in the sitting room of an innocuous two-story craftsman home with yellow walls and an abundance of festive cheer—is an easy grin and male pattern baldness.

Arthur’s father is tall, dark, and unnervingly attractive. Of course he is, Eames thinks. Father and son make quite the picture as they hug with more open affection and none of the manly posturing that Eames had anticipated.

“Welcome home, son.”

“Thanks,” Arthur steps back with a smile that’s just a tad on the shy side and draws Eames forward. “Uh, this is Eames. Eames, my dad.”

Eames puts on his best-yet-sincere smile and holds out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Arthur’s father gives his hand a robust shake while examining him head to toe. He straightens his already tense shoulders, unsure if he should feel embarrassed or defensive by the blatant assessment. But Arthur’s father just continues to smile genially. “Huh, you are burly. I’d guess you’re the top, then?”

“Dad!”

Arthur’s father just waves him off. “Don’t mind him. He’s always been squeamish. Lord knows where he gets it from. But he’s right; I shouldn’t assume. Big guys like to receive, too, I’m sure.”

“Oh, my god.”

Eames admires the way Arthur’s ears go red at the tips, the way it brings out the olive tones in his complexion. Whatever else happens on this trip, this moment has already made it all so very worthwhile.

“Squeamish,” he muses. Not a word that would normally have ever come to mind about Arthur, but now that it’s in his head, he’s enchanted by the idea.

Arthur must sense the nature of his thoughts because he redirects his indignant glare. “Say one word, and you’re sleeping alone.”

Due to his somewhat perverse nature, the waspish tone makes Eames long to kiss the hostile line of Arthur’s mouth. Plus it’s been hours since he’s been able to touch Arthur properly, and these urges tend to build up. Instead, he turns back to Arthur’s father with a better-and-definitely-sincere-this-time smile. “Thank you so much for letting me join your holiday festivities, Mr. King.”

The man beams, bearing absolutely no resemblance to his son in that moment. “Call me Mason. Ah, and here comes Jackie, light of my life.” They turn as a group as they’re joined by a slim woman with Arthur’s nose and a stunning smile.

“Eames,” she zeroes in the new face with a surprising amount of warm familiarity, “it’s so good to finally meet you.” And then she startles Eames with a quick hug. He sputters some kind of greeting in reply and is still trying to figure out what to do with his hands when Jackie whirls on her son. “And you, come here.”

This hug is decidedly longer, and a little voice in Eames’s head coos at the sight of Arthur bashfully hiding his smile in the sleek bob of his mother’s hair. “Hi, Mom.”

Arthur’s father—Mason—watches the pair greet one another with an expression that Eames is hard-pressed to identify. Open happiness and infinite patience, with something rather like satisfaction mixed in.

Eames wonders if this is a look common to all fathers in scenarios such as this, or if the King family presents a unique specimen.

Jackie finally pulls back and begins fussing over Arthur the way he’s seen mothers do. “Are you putting on weight? It looks like you’re putting on weight.”

“I—”

She talks over him with a mother’s ease. “Eames, honey, I’m guessing this is your influence.”

Caught in that bright stare, so familiar in its intensity, Eames mentally ransacks his repertoire of behaviorisms for what a proper boyfriend would say. “Oh. Well, I—”

“I approve.”

Eames blinks. “Wonderful. Um. I bought him that shirt.”

Jackie laughs and does something very peculiar—she cups the side of his face with a soft hand and practically radiates affection. He’s beginning to think the Addams family would have been easier to handle. “It’s a very nice shirt. Come on, let me show you where you boys will be staying.”

The guestroom is a cozy affair, artfully done in deep blues and warm wood tones. Jackie shows off the space with obvious pride, and it’s clear where her son got his taste for expensive fabrics. “Fresh towels are in the bathroom next door, and there’s extra blankets in that chest there if you need. I know it was a long flight, so if you want to freshen up a bit, dinner won’t be ready for at least an hour.”

“And don’t worry,” Mason interjects with a toothy grin, “our room is clear on the other side of the house, so just make yourselves at home.”

Arthur promptly starts to shove his father out the room. “Jesus, Dad.”

“Just want Eames to be comfortable here,” Mason retorts, dragging his feet. “You’re two healthy young men, after all. Don’t stand in the way of nature, I always say.”

“When have you ever said that?”

Jackie just tuts over the two like this is an everyday occurrence. “Behave, Mason.”

“I always behave.” But he lets his wife steer him through the door, leaning over to whisper in her ear. Seconds later, they hear giggling down the hallway. Arthur cringes and closes the bedroom door by falling back against it.

“Sorry about… that,” Arthur bumps his head against the wood in a vague gesture.

Moderately disturbed but charmed beyond telling, Eames cages him in with outstretched arms. “Don’t. They’re perfect.” He dips his head down for a much-needed kiss and feels some of the day’s anxiety slip away with every second he spends with that sulky mouth.

Arthur’s eyes have fluttered closed, one of his subtler signs of arousal. “Hm. I reserve the right to question your judgement.”

“My judgement got you that shirt.”

“It’s a great shirt. I love this shirt.”

And it’s tricky kissing someone while smiling, but Eames manages to make it work as he tugs Arthur away from the door. They do a funny little pseudo-waltz to the bed, continuously attached at the mouth, where Arthur shoves him back onto the mattress before climbing on top.  Eames needs no prompting to get his hands around that pert bottom he cherishes so much, keeping Arthur pulled in up tight and close where he likes him.

He takes his time kissing Arthur, luxuriating in the sensations and overall intimacy. Getting off can, for once, wait. He just wants to taste his fill while he’s got Arthur in his arms, bashful and unguarded.

And, okay, yes—having sex while Arthur’s parents are possibly waiting in the hall is just a wee bit daunting.

Arthur, always reading his mind it seems, eases back with a content little hum and tucks his face against Eames’s shoulder. He’s warm and heavy against his side, about as relaxed as Eames has ever seen him.

It’s still quite a novelty, this different version of Arthur that’s crept through since that day in Naples. Calm, soft-spoken, downright pliable at times. And seeing him here, lounging about on a tufted quilt, getting his clothes all wrinkled and mussed, it’s easy to look past the international criminal and hired gun to find a young man enjoying a leisurely family vacation. As far as Eames can tell, there isn’t even a firearm within thirty meters of his person.

He presses a kiss to the top of Arthur’s head—hair left soft and curling for this trip home, god love him. “So, not the house you grew up in, then?”

Arthur wiggles about, toeing off his shoes and nudging them over the side of the bed. “No, we had a house about forty-five minutes from here. Nice neighborhood, but the house was aging. I convinced them to move after my first big payout.”

“Paris, wasn’t that?”

“Lyons.”

“Ah, yes. Good old Alain.”

“You hated Alain. Said he was a fuckwitted blowhard.”

“And so he was. But he paid well.” Eames strokes a hand down the back of Arthur’s arm, then back up to toy with those short little hairs at the nape of his neck. “Anyway, I’m disappointed. I was looking forward to getting lucky in your childhood bedroom.”

“Jesus, you’re such a cliché.”

“Thought maybe we could do a little bit of roleplay. The angsty teenager and his hot French tutor.”

“Which one am I in this scenario?”

“Depends on whether or not you can say naughty things in French.”

“Tu es un pervers ridicule.”

Eames can’t help but pull him a little closer. Some things just never stop being sexy. Arthur struggles to scowl through his grin, resulting in a demented-looking leer that’s too adorable for words. “And yet you love me.”

“Shut up and kiss me before I change my mind about that.”

And who is he to defy orders?

Eames drags Arthur beneath him and gets serious about this snogging business. He forgets all about parental units and expectations, the past, and bloody Christmas carols. There’s just warm skin under expensive cotton, the thrum of Arthur’s pulse under his tongue, and that rich voice murmuring into the tight space between them.

“I’m glad we’re here. I’m glad you’re here with me.”

“No place I’d rather be, darling.”

“Why are we going for Christmas?”

“I told you, if you’re not comfortable with this—”

“That’s not what—I meant, I thought you were Jewish.”

“You thought I was Jewish?”

“Aren’t New Yorkers supposed to be Jewish?”

“You think I’m from New York? Also, that’s moronically stereotypical. I’m disappointed in you as a person.”

“Well, how am I supposed to keep up with all your secrets! I don’t have a little file of Arthur facts tucked away in my jacket pocket.”

“That’s not where I keep—”

“So not the point, Arthur.”

“Then what is the point, besides your astonishingly unsophisticated worldview? I mean, you do know the nineties are over, right?”

“My point is, we’re meeting up with your parents for Christmas. Christmas. With your parents.”

“Baby, look… I meant it when I said, if you’re not comfortable with this, we don’t have to go. It’s okay. I know it’s a big step. And kind of soon, with, you know, this… with us.”

“Now you’re just being silly. They’re expecting us. It’s this whole thing, now. We have to go.”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I just want you to be happy.”

“Don’t you want me to meet your parents?”

“Oh, for god’s sa—yes. Absolutely. But only if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Of course, I am. It’ll be great. Who doesn’t love Christmas?”

Arthur isn’t exactly nervous, per se, about bringing his boyfriend home for the first time in his life—and is that even a word he can use to describe what Eames is to him?

Boyfriend.

It sounds so naïve and untried, too flimsy of a term to capture the complexity of all the years and experiences they’ve shared, and now the consuming passion and fierce possession that characterizes their relationship. Boyfriend doesn’t come close to defining what they are to each other.

So, no, Arthur isn’t exactly nervous about bringing Eames home to meet his parents, but he is a little concerned. Eames hardly said a word during that last flight but babbled incessantly on the drive from the airport.  And then there was that small hyperventilating episode at baggage claim, which Eames had tried to pass off as accidentally swallowing his gum.

And Arthur gets it, he really does. For all that they’ve been each other’s shadows for the last year, it’s only been a couple of months since they first admitted to being in love. In a way, their relationship is still a delicate thing to be coveted between them. Sharing it, sharing them with anyone, even his parents, has Arthur feeling a little raw and exposed. He can imagine how much worse it must be for Eames.

He makes the mistake of mentioning some of this to his mother while he helps her set the table. She just laughs at him and tells him it’s a normal feeling, insists they’re going through a honeymoon phase.

“It’s cute,” she says.

Arthur narrows his eyes and spends the next twenty minutes extolling horsepower upgrades and clutch aesthetics on the latest Aston Martin model in enthusiastic, excruciating detail until her eyes glaze over. Because he doesn’t do cute, thank you very much.

His mother’s gleeful good cheer revives itself when they sit down for dinner. His parents have gone all out—and it isn’t even Christmas, yet. The table is loaded down with more food than the four of them could possible eat in a single night, which Arthur knows is his mother’s way of contingency planning in case Eames ends up allergic to baked potatoes or something. He tried to tell her that Eames will eat just about anything—with a notable and extreme exception for mint-flavored jelly beans—and that she didn’t need to go out of her way with meal-planning. Indeed, Eames looks a teensy bit overwhelmed by the three different types of gravy placed at his elbow, just in case.

All things considered, though, Arthur is very pleased with how well this visit is going. Like he told Eames, he’s glad that they came. There’s something different about this visit, and not just the obvious of bringing Eames with him. Yes, he’s happy to be introducing them and seeing the way his parents gush over the man in his life. But there’s more.

He’s oddly excited to see his parents, to be spending a mundane week with them just kicking around the house and maybe taking in a movie or two. It’s not until his dad winks at him over the green beans that Arthur realizes that his excitement stems from his parents seeing him, who he is now that Eames is an integral part of his life.

Arthur’s formative years were happy ones, in a more or less tepid way, but he’d always felt like a fish swimming upstream, and he could tell that his parents knew it and were bothered by it even more than he was.

As a child, he wanted for nothing, and both his mom and dad took obvious care to remind him at every turn that they loved him. It wasn’t their fault that he struggled with things that come naturally to other people—making friends, expressing feelings. He never learned how to connect with people, but he did learn how to be okay with that.

And, in the end, it doesn’t matter because he has Eames. Having Eames makes everything else worth it.

He watches Eames, now, loving the fact that he can sit here and look all he wants just for the simple pleasure of it.

Eames has the charm dialed all the way up, steering the conversation with light questions and jaunty smiles. But Arthur knows it’s all a defense mechanism, knows Eames isn’t nearly as relaxed as he appears. But the sight of him, in the house, sharing space with the only people to ever love Arthur unconditionally, cracks his heart open and fills it with so much happiness that Arthur doesn’t quite know how to balance the feeling.

“…so then she tells me it’s really just cauliflower, after all.”

Arthur watches, bemused, as Eames and his dad both double over in laughter. He waits to hear what’s so hilarious about cauliflower, but neither man can catch their breath long enough to explain. Eames just keeps gasping cauliflower, which sets his dad off in fresh giggles, until both of them finally sit up, wipe tears of mirth from their cheeks, and toast each other with their beers.

And Arthur has the most horrifying epiphany that he drains the rest of his wine in one go.

His mother sees it all with a beatific smile and gleaming eyes, the traitor. She leans across the table and pats his hand. “Relax, honey. It’s sweet that you found someone who reminds you of your father.”

“Oh, god.”

She just laughs, drawing Eames’s attention back to their side of the table. He places a hand on Arthur’s knee, out of sight, and asks just loud enough for the two of them, “Okay?”

Arthur sighs. Because, honestly, he’s not as surprised as he’d like to be, and there are certainly worst things than being with the three most important people in his life. “Everything’s perfect,” he says truthfully.

And simply because he can, Arthur pulls Eames close and kisses him right there at the dinner table, in full view of his parents. It’s a chaste kiss by their standards, but he can feel Eames’s breath hitch, the hand on his leg tightening. He takes his time before drawing back just far enough to murmur against Eames’s lips. “Love you.”

Eames looks startled but pleased. Arthur thinks he might be blushing. “Love you, too, sweetheart.”

When Arthur looks up, his father grins back at him. “Looks like you kids are ready for dessert.”

“Will you cut it out? You’re going to scare the poor boy off, and we’ll never see him again.”

“Pssh. If he can’t handle a little gentle teasing, he’s not man enough for our son.”

“I’m talking about our son.”

“Oh. Well, all the more reason. Does him good to get riled up now and then.”

“Mason, we’ve talked about this.”

“I know we have. And you know what? No. Just no. It’s hard enough as it is, not knowing where he is and whether or not he’s safe. I hate—it’s—I want my son back, Jackie.”

“I know, hon. I know. We both do. But you have to admit, he’s been better lately.”

“And you think it’s because of Eames.”

“Of course it is. Look at them. It’s obvious how much Arthur loves him.”

“But what if it doesn’t work out? Can you even imagine what a broken heart would do to someone like Arthur?”

“You can’t protect him from life, honey. He’ll never be our little boy again, but he’s finally happy. They’re happy. Don’t push them.”

“Fine. I know, you’re right. But what if—”

“Enough. Here, take this and get back in there. And no more penis jokes, or I’m calling your mother.”

Dinner is an extraordinary experience for Eames, one that leaves him shaken for so many reasons.

Strange enough that Arthur spends the entire day in jeans—however expensive and stylish those may be—and minimal hair gel. Arthur, when among family, smiles without sarcasm and makes jokes that aren’t laced with the threat of violence. And although he never drops that constant, alert readiness that makes him aces in a fire fight, Arthur hasn’t looked at his mobile once since arriving.

But the true revelation comes from observing Arthur with his parents. The easy affection between the three of them draws Eames’s focus every time they touch, poke fun at one another, or reference family memories that Eames wasn’t a part of. He’s never seen Arthur be this casual with anyone except himself, and he wants to relish the experience. He truly does.

It’s just that…

Seeing how loving and, frankly, normal Arthur’s parents are puts him off-kilter. This is the foundation Arthur grew up with—love, acceptance, understanding—and it’s something that Eames has fuck-all in common with.

His own foundations are rotted, pitted with bitter scorn, and as baseless as the many masquerades he’s played throughout his life. Growing up with only his father, all other relatives either dead or discarded, taught him that family might as well be a four-lettered word.

And then there’s his mother—more of an idea than a reality, seeing as how she ran off when Eames was still too young to remember her. He likes to tell himself he doesn’t blame her for leaving—because who would want to stay with that asshole for a husband—but at times like this, he wishes the woman had cared enough about the son she bore to at least keep in contact. Maybe if he had at least one other person in the world that he could point to and say that’s where I come from, maybe then he wouldn’t feel this growing chasm between what he wants and what he has.

Then again, the only tidbits he knows about his mother are from his father’s misogynistic tirades, and who’s to say the old bastard wasn’t telling the truth?

And all the years that followed, after he left his father’s house—his entire history is predicated on one fabricated identity after another. In reality, the man going around the world, calling himself Eames, is merely an apparition compared to someone like Arthur King.

It’s not that Eames wishes Arthur’s background were as fucked up as his own. He’s pleased and even a bit relieved to know that Arthur—his twisted, battered, and surprisingly breakable darling—comes from this, two people that love him openly and without reservation or conditions.

And he’s fully aware of how trite and pathetic he’s being now. Doubting. All these insecurities. God, even the word makes him want to slap himself in annoyance.

Only… how much easier this whole family situation would have been, had he and Arthur been from similar circumstances. And, yes, if Eames is being honest with himself, a part of him feels rocked by the vast differences in their backgrounds. Even in the early days, Eames had always imagined that Arthur was a kindred spirit, moving ever forward in life in defiance of a troublesome, dissatisfying past.

How could he have ever predicted that the man he’s feared, raged against, lusted after, and eventually love… came from this?

And how can he ever understand what a man like Arthur is doing, devoting himself to a man like Eames?

It made sense when Eames thought Arthur was a broken, world-weary spook seeking thrills to give his life meaning. It made sense when he thought Arthur was jaded, lonely, warming his blood with the heat of passion. But the more time he spends here, observing the strong bonds of respect and affection that knit the King family together, the less sense any of it makes.

“So… you told your folks about me.”

“Yes? I mean, clearly. Eames, we fly out next week.”

“Yeah, I just… you know.”

“We’ve talked about this. If you’re having second thoughts—”

“What did they say?”

“My parents? About what? Coming to visit?”

“No. When you told them about… you know.”

“You, specifically, or guys in general?”

“Either, or. And. Both. Wait, how many—no, nevermind. Sorry. Just the other thing. Sorry.”

“Well, when I told my mother I was gay—actually, I told her I was bisexual, to be accurate—she gave me a hug and told me I still had to use condoms even though I couldn’t get boys pregnant.”

“Ah. Awkward.”

“Not half as much as the articles my dad used to email me about how to have safe anal sex.”

“He didn’t.”

“Oh, yeah, totally did. Avoiding Anal Fissures was my favorite, right after The Truths and Myths of Incontinence.”

“You’re having me on.”

“All true, I swear. We’re big on research in my family.”

“Huh. Wow. Okay, just… wow.”

“It’s cool. I realize how fortunate I was. Not everyone’s coming out story goes as well.”

“Yeah. Right. So, uh… he took it well, then? Your dad?”

“Oh, well, I didn’t actually tell him. My mom did. We didn’t… we didn’t really talk about any of that, he and I. Not until recently, actually. He, uh… I told him first. About us, I mean.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I told him that I met someone. And that I wanted him to fall in love with me.”

“Did you now? Lucky fellow.”

“He’s about to get luckier.”

Sleep is difficult on the best of days. Used to be, he’d just troll the streets, drinking and gambling until it became impossible to keep his eyes open any longer. Might take hours, might take days, but eventually it did the trick.

These days he gets to enjoy a more pleasurable way of burning the midnight oil, which usually does a far better job of knocking him out than a bottle of Kentucky’s finest. But Arthur is already out cold after the first round, and he sleeps even less than Eames, so he isn’t going to fuss for round two just because he can’t get his thoughts to stop racing.

He slips out of bed and dresses silently in the dark. It’s ridiculous to feel weird about it, but he does, like he’s doing something wrong, shameful.

The house is silent and dark, but he’s already memorized the layout of furniture and the locations of squeaky floorboards. He makes his ways to the sitting room where the glow of the Christmas tree seeps out like a beacon, colorful fairy lights sparkling like stars in the shadow-filled room.

The tree draws him in, as if it can banish all the worries of the world simply by standing there. He plays his fingers over the branch tips and smiles at the way the glass bulbs ring like bells. Very cheerful, that.

“You know, I used to find Arthur like this. Wasn’t much a one for sleeping, that boy.”

Eames glances over his shoulder as Arthur’s dad—Mason—steps into the room. “Not a lot has changed, then.”

Mason smiles and joins him in front of the tree. “Arthur always liked Christmas lights. He would fall asleep on the couch, just watching the tree for hours. Never would say what he was thinking about all that time.” His smile takes a nostalgic bend, wry and fond in the same expression.

Eames imagines a tiny Arthur in footie pajamas, flushed cheeks and tousled hair, curled up on a sofa lit with red and green. He feels the most peculiar clenching sensation just below his diaphragm. “Thank you, again, for opening your home to me. It’s really great being here. Sharing this with you all.”

Mason gives him a considering look. “Then why do you look like a man about to run for the hills?”

Eames jerks. “What? No—I don’t—”

The other man turns to face him fully, deceptively casual with his hands stuck in the pockets of his plaid pajama bottoms. It’s a very familiar stance. “Come on, none of that,” he cajoles with a friendly tone. “You’ve been doing so well. Don’t flail out now.”

Eames drags a hand over his mouth, struggling to dredge up words that don’t want to be articulated. “Look. Sir… I love your son, yeah? More than I even understand, I love him.”

“But?” And it’s that look, that frustrating mix of patient understanding and patronizing amusement that Eames has confronted time and again—oh, but it’s so clear where he gets that from, now—that helps shake the words loose.

“I just… being here,” Eames gestures helplessly at the tree, the intimate display of family photos on the wall, Mason’s overly cozy pajamas, even. “Watching him with you. It’s wonderful, truly is. I love seeing him here, happy to be with his family and soaking up the holiday spirit. I’ve always wanted to see him like this.”

Mason nods like any of that makes sense as to why Eames is feeling so miserable.

“So, the problem is you.”

Okay, maybe he does get it. And, ouch.

Eames sighs, eyes locking on a tree ornament with ARTHUR written across the front in precise, silvery block letters. That bit of plastic and glitter mocks him, sums up the complete mindfuck that has driven Eames out of a warm bed in the middle of the night.

“I don’t come from this,” he tries to explain, “All this… normal and family togetherness and shit. I don’t know how to be this. How am I supposed to be right for him, be good for him?”

“Ah, I see,” Mason raises his brows. “You think it would be better to leave him for his own good.”

Eames recoils from that statement. “No. Christ no.” Only, that might actually have been what he was thinking, but hearing it said aloud induces an instant gut-rending feeling, like he’s physically allergic to the idea of leaving Arthur. “That’s not what I want.”

Mason frowns at him, not unkindly. “What do you want?”

He stares back, unable to answer. He knew what he wanted a year ago—Arthur, in whatever form he could have him, he just wanted Arthur. And got him, miracle of miracles. Two months later, he sat on a beach and realized how deep that wanting had become. Realized he didn’t want to go another day without Arthur beside him, and he worried about what that meant for the independent persona he worked so hard to create. After years of running from his own life, Eames had finally found a version of himself that he could settle in to. To suddenly have the balance of all that resting on anyone else, especially a man like Arthur…

Mason drags him out of his ineffectual musings by leading him over to the sofa. “Listen, son. If you’re holding out for guarantees of happiness and marital bliss, you’re going to be here awhile.”

Eames gapes, perturbed. “Who said anything about marital?”

Mason smirks. “We’ll see. My point being, you’re never going to be good enough Arthur.”

Eames gapes some more, surprised by how much that stings. “I—”

But Mason just smiles gently and pats Eames on the knee. “Hush, I’m being profound, not literal. None of us are ever good enough for the ones we love. They’re greater than we could ever hope to be, and that’s one of the reasons why we love them so much. And why we’ll always try to be more than we are, for their sakes.”

“Pretty words, but it’s not that simple.”

“No, you’re right. It’s not. But let me tell you something about Arthur.” Mason takes a moment to gather his thoughts. Eames waits patiently. He has all the time in the world when it’s something about Arthur.

“He was an odd one, even when he was little. Never talked much. Not that he was shy or anything. Kid could nag worse than his mother when his feathers were ruffled,” Mason smirks. “Most of the time, though, I think it just didn’t occur to him to share his thoughts on anything.”

“Yeah, well, nothing much has changed there, either.” But Eames is perked up and listening, committing every detail to memory.

“You’d be surprised. Sure, he was a quiet kid. But we always knew he was happy, even if he never said much one way or the other.”

It’s clear from the resignation in Mason’s eyes that the story takes a turn. “Something happened.”

“Several somethings, I gather. Hell, you probably know better than me.” Mason sighs. “High school was rough, of course. Frankly, I’m surprised any of us make it through high school with our psyches intact. Arthur didn’t really have friends. Not sure if he wanted any, to be honest. But then he got mixed up with that Scofield boy.”

He notes Eames’s raised brow with open interest. “Hasn’t told you about that one? Well, suffice to say, Trevor wasn’t the kind you bring home to meet your parents. Arthur got into a little trouble, legal and otherwise. Shortly after, he went away to college and never really came back.”

Eames chafes at the lack of detail in the story, but he likes Mason all the more for honoring Arthur’s privacy. Maybe someday he’ll get the specifics from the man, himself. “He didn’t finish his degree, right?”

“Nope. Recruited into the Army just a couple of years in. His mother was livid, but don’t tell him that. We knew he was struggling, trying to find his way in life. We wanted to let him do things on his terms.” Mason gives a bitter smile.

“What happened?” Although Eames can guess much of how the story goes from here.

“Arthur has always been a thoughtful son. Always. But not long after enlisting he didn’t call home as much as he used to. Visited even less. And when he did… he was different. Tense. Clearly unhappy. Withdrawn like I’d never seen him.” Mason stares off. “For almost five years, my own son wouldn’t look me in the eye.”

Eames thinks about Arthur as he first met him, all those years ago. It’s difficult to picture that Arthur existing outside the context of a military bases and secret labs, but when he tries… his heart aches for that man, frozen within himself. And how hard it must have been for his family to see him like that and not understand…

Mason continue on. “Something happened, took Arthur down a dark road. We know better than to ask him questions about his work. I’ve seen enough Denzel Washington movies to know that I probably don’t want the answers,” he jokes in a sardonic tone.

Eames gives him a weak smile. After Arthur’s confession about his training, after seeing some of it himself, he has a good idea of what might have happened, but there’s obviously still a lot that Arthur hasn’t told him. He’s not sure if he wants to know, either.

“Whatever it was, it just kept getting worse. When we could get him on the phone, it was like talking to a stranger. So carefully polite. More and more distant every time. We were losing him. And we didn’t know why.”

Mason’s voice breaks on the last word. He pauses, taking a few deep breaths. “I thought I had lost my boy. I don’t have the words to make you understand how painful that was. For me, for Jackie.”

Eames looks away from the tears in the other man’s eyes. He’s never had to lie about dreamshare or his work to a loved one, and he’s unprepared for how difficult it is to not fill in some of the blanks for Arthur’s dad. It probably wouldn’t help, he knows, but it’s so obvious how much it hurts Mason to not understand how Arthur became what he is.

“And then,” Mason goes, the grief gradually fading from his face, “years ago, he was home on leave. Sick as a dog, the poor thing. Told us it was pneumonia, but I have my doubts. Anyway, there he was, tucked up onto this very couch, all feverish and cranky, and bitched about some ‘British asshole’ named Eames. That’s a direct quote, by the way.”

Eames starts, meeting Mason’s gaze with his own baffled look. “Me? He told you about me before we were…” The word lovers doesn’t make it off his lips.

“He looked right at me and whined about what an annoying prick you were.” Mason slants him a smile filled with mischief and… what was that? Approval? “But he blushed every time he said your name.”

Oh. Now, isn’t that interesting. “Sure it wasn’t just the fever?”

“I wasn’t, no. Not until he called last spring to ask for dating advice.”

And Eames just doesn’t know what to do with that, truly doesn’t. Arthur has already admitted to fancying Eames for years before they got together, but what does it say that Arthur, the unrivaled czar of information security and paranoia, gave his father his name? And how does that change… anything?

Arthur called his dad for dating tips?

His confusion must be apparent because Mason gives him another one of those consoling pats on the knee.

“Here’s the moral of my story, son. We’re not fools, Arthur’s mother and I. We know Arthur has demons in his life. And that things aren’t always as mild as he’d like us to believe. And maybe you come from a broken home, got a string of ex-wives or a drinking problem for all I know. But I honestly don’t care. As far as I can tell, you’ve brought my boy back from whatever pit he’d fallen in. You’re the reason he smiles again. Maybe you’re not good enough for Arthur, but I suspect you’re exactly what he needs.”

Eames is swimming in his emotions, possibly even drowning a little. The only bit that’s clear to him right now is that he loves Arthur with everything he is. Maybe that’s all he really needs to know. “I hope so. I really hope so. I’ll do my best to be, anyway.”

Mason gives him a smile and a decisive nod. “Good. Now back to bed with you. Got a big day of family fun-time ahead of us.” He stands, Eames following suit.

Eames holds his hand out. “Thanks, Mason. I definitely appreciate you talking with me.”

Mason shakes his hand. “Anytime, Eames. I mean that.”

Eames starts to pull away, but Mason holds tight to his hand. Suddenly the caring patriarch is wiped out by a flat stare. “Seriously, though. If you break my kid’s heart, I’ll castrate you with a pair of rusty hedge clippers.”

Eames blinks.

Mason claps him on the shoulder. “Don’t fuck this up, son.”

Chapter Text

Christmas morning at the Kings’ house is, in one word, perfect.

They sleep in for a whole half-hour, extended by another forty minutes when Arthur gets frisky under the covers. Yes, maybe Eames is caught off guard by the fervent touches and almost desperate, whispered begging. But he’ll never need to be asked twice to put his hands and mouth all over Arthur’s skin.

Once they’re clean and decent enough for public consumption, the two of them wander downstairs to find Arthur’s parents already up and fixing breakfast. Jackie is excited to share her new sticky bun recipe. Mason leads Eames in a round of inappropriate jokes about, well, sticky buns.

There’s been no hint from Mason about their late-night encounter, for which Eames is profoundly grateful. He had worried that things might be awkward—his experience with heart to heart discussions being pathetically low—but Mason is all smiles and Christmas cheer. And if he has shared any of Eames’s emotional failings with Jackie, Eames hasn't detected any difference in the way Arthur’s mother looks at him.

Arthur is quiet, hugging his coffee to his chest. But he offers a warm smile whenever Eames looks his way, and the love in his eyes is as fierce as ever.

It’s a good morning.

Things get more… complicated after breakfast, unfortunately. Mason shepherds everyone into the den and hands gifts out like a manic Christmas elf. Arthur laughs as a small pile of gifts grow at his feet. “Here,” he says, passing over a brightly colored box, “this one is for you.”

Eames takes the gift with ginger hands, eyes down to mask his hesitancy. The paper is a festive red bedecked with silver stars. From the enormous bow dangles a handwritten tag. To Eames, from Jackie & Mason.

That’s the point when Eames feels his happy little holiday bubble start to burst.

The gift rests in his lap like a ticking timebomb of expectation and resentment. Not that he resents Arthur’s parents for the present. It was thoughtful of them to include him in this particular tradition. Sweetly unnecessary, though. It’s enough that they’ve welcomed him in their home—and their son’s life—with open arms.

Hence the source of his dread. Mason and Jackie have tried so hard to show him acceptance. The last thing he wants to do is hurt their feelings by being anything less than thrilled with whatever trinket they’ve found to give him, little more than a stranger that’s encroached on their inner circle.

On the tails of that thought come guilt and shame. Like a spoiled child, he’s being. It’s not as if his life has been flush with Christmas presents. He won’t be an ungrateful bastard over a clichéd sweater, or pen set or whatever, just because he wishes…

Eames knows this shouldn’t pang him as much as it does. He’s well-versed in making merry amidst a crowd of strangers. At least this time he has Arthur, whose presence makes up for all the empty Christmases that came before. And Eames had decided sometime in the wee hours of the night that he would move heaven and hell to give Arthur the happy holiday he deserves.

First obvious step in that: pleasing Arthur’s parents.

Under different circumstances, that wouldn’t be a problem. He is the consummate actor and con man, after all. He can convince anyone that he is anything. He can certainly convince Arthur’s parents that he’s feeling the Christmas cheer.

One small problem with that being… Eames finds himself curiously reluctant to bring those skills into this moment. Here, in this tinsel-strewn home with the scent of sugar lingering in the air. It’s no place for forgers, facsimiles of real people. He wants to be genuine. Only he doesn’t know how to be Bryce anymore, if he would even want to. And, yet, to bring the taint of Eames among these people… this family.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Mason gently prods.

Eames attacks the package with an appropriate level of exuberance, pleased smile fixed in place. The shiny paper gives way to reveal a nondescript garment box. Sweater it is, then. With a steadying breath and a mental script for grateful gushing at the ready, he pulls off the top of the box. His Stepford smile drops away like a stone.

Socks.

It’s a box of socks. All made of the finest merino wool with exquisitely tiny stitching. But, oh, the colors. Bright reds and vulgar purples. Soft, powdery blue and art deco black. Riotous patterns and ridiculous prints that will be impossible to overlook, even with properly hemmed trousers.

It’s a box full of Arthur’s worst sartorial nightmare, and Eames is earnestly afraid that he might cry.

“Do you like them?”

Eames looks up to find Jackie watching him with hopeful eyes. Next to her, Mason smiles on knowingly. Almost like… he can almost pretend… “They’re wonderful,” he manages to say, heart in his throat.

“Lemme see…” Arthur leans into his side to peer over a wall of tissue paper. “Oh, hell.” Then he chuckles. “Well, they’re certainly you.”

Eames’s smile is so wide that it actually pains him. Because Arthur is right. They really, really are. “This is the best Christmas gift ever,” he gushes with ease. “Thank you, Jackie. Mason.”

“Hey now, you still haven’t opened mine, yet.” Arthur affects a wounded pout.

Eames watches that silky bottom lip poke out and considers the meaning of family. He’ll probably never fully understand it. But he does know about hope. He plants a smacking kiss on one of Arthur’s dimples. “It couldn’t possibly compare to what I already have.”