Archive of Our Own

the whole room snaps up in attention at the unusually fond and cheerful sound of yusufs voice gliding through the door he walks in to the hall. the afternoon was looking rather dull since the morning, even Arthur himself had given up stubbornly plowing through the inevitable doom of unproductivity about two coffee cups ago. Rest of the team, rounding up with the usual suspects sans the father-of-the-year, had said goodbye to getting any work done around eight in the morning and were idly waiting until it was a respectable time to call it a night. 

“Mom, dad, this is my research team, they are working with me on the latest study on chemicals responsible for the neurological disturbances in patients with PTSD and Trauma”, yusuf easily explains, his eyes wildling gesturing in all and every direction with what is probably the universal sign of act fucking along. 

Ariadne, ever adaptable and the person who holds the best resemblance to a sleep deprived grad student, takes it in stride.

“hello mr. and mrs Al-Azhari, so good to meet you… in almost person”, she nervously chuckles, running out of steam pretty quickly. Arthur wonders whether it’s the sudden dawn of the idea that she is speaking to her probable future-in-laws.  Or of the fact that all of three of them, including eames who had probably seen yusuf naked more than his mother has in the past decade, are still recovering from the fact that yusuf, of all people could have very normal looking parents. parents period. 

The two brown blobs with familiar curly hair and blinding smiles wave at her. the lady in a kurta clasps her hand on either side of her forehead and says “you are Ariadne!  we’ve been hearing about so much! oh you look prettier in video, meri jaan. Our yusuf says you are the head of the research team?”

Arthur looks between the equally reddening cheeks of his teammates and inwardly snickers at the obvious matchmaking the elderly woman is doing right infront of her child and his love interest. A part of him wonders whether he should be mad at the fact that in yusufs sugary cane world he had painted for his parents, him or at least eames should be the “head” of the team, but the other, larger part of Arthur tramples it down just as quick. 

nothing matters in the matters of heart, Arthur smiles, looking at yusuf hand waving the fact that his mother had complimented Ariadne, twice in the same sentence, and slowly turning the laptop screen away from her.

.. to him, to them. 

Arthur straightens his spine from where it was slouching and he catches in the corner of his eyes to see that eames does the same. arthur sympathies with eames at his utter speechless-ness; after all, Arthur too may or may not know a thing or two about one’s best friend dropping completely surprising facts on Wednesday afternoons out of the fucking blue. 

“and this is eames. and Arthur. they are also in the team.” 

“Namaste, I’m eames, you probably have heard of me”, eames drawls, finally snapping up from his shock and making himself presentable in a split second. and winning at that too , arthur observes, seeing yusufs parents beam at the correctly pronounced greeting drop out of eames lips easily. probably an ancestral habit of colonialism, Arthurs mind helpfully supplies and he lets his lips twitch upward a little. Arthur wonders whether the extra - sauciness of his mind is because of the coffee from a new place.

or his internal clock which has been screaming to him that it’s ten pm in the evening and time to sleep sleep sleep, despite the glaring sunlight. 

he has no time to dwell on that as three pairs of eyes shift from eames after the greetings conclude, to painfully lock on him.

now, Arthur is the poster child of good first impressions and has won over difficult clients with his easy talk and efficient professionalism. no, he doesn’t promise them the sun and moon and even stars beyond, that has been cobb, but in order for Cobb to do that, arthur has been laying the first groundwork for as long as he remembers. But under a kind gaze of a lightly balding man with eager eyes and a greying woman with a soft smile, who are parents, parents , arthur finds himself faltering. 

the very same chair that Eames had been lounging for the past two hours doing nothing. 

“very pleased to meet you Arthur and eames”, the man smiles, and Arthur feels himself gripping the chair at the combined names. again, the very fucking same chair that he can’t seem to let go today for some reason. 

“oh you are like varun and Tanveer! They adopted the cutest Punjabi baby last month. Oh bless you”, the woman prattles on and it takes exactly two seconds for Arthur to register what exactly she’s implying about. 

oh no, we are not like varun and tanveer, almost, almost leaves his lips and Arthur wants those words to leave his lips, grab sound waves, crackle and glitch over the electronic lay out of the laptop and transmit to thousands of miles across continents and oceans to land in a house in India. Arthur doesn’t know anything and also knows everything about varun and tanveer and he wants to tell the brown couple cooing over at them that there’s nothing like that between him and eames. nothing at all. 

Expect the words don’t leave his lips.  And Arthur wonders what’s it like to be like Varun and Tanveer. He wonders whether varun and tanveer knock on each others doors appearing empty handed save for some angry looking bruises and angrier tails and feels safe as soon as the door opens. He wonders whether Varun and Tanveer knows the flavour of the tea and flavour of the soup that instantly calms the other down, even on the hardest of days. He wonders whether varun looks forward to working with tanveer as much he longs for the days he can see those sinful lips uttering words and bite back his replies in longing poorly disguised as frustration at them. 

Arthur barely registers yusuf muttering “this is why I don’t let you meet my friends”, snapping his laptop shut and disappearing once again to his room and ariadne visibly vibrating out of excitement for herself and may be for themselves. he does notice eames very intensely staring right at him, his gaze imploring and assuring at the same time, making Arthur slightly dizzy. 

Arthur waits and waits until eames asks. Why didn’t Arthur correct them, state in conviction that they are not like varun and tanveer, jump to be very specific, to be utterly exact that no adopting cute babies of any nationality is happening for them anytime soon. Or anytime later. Arthur waits until the proverbial shoe to drop right on to his head so that he can pick it up and shove it back to eames, so that they can go back to being arthur and eames, not varun and  tanveer, nameless people who probably has not  stitched each other up from scraps. 

The words never come, but as what comes instead is a soft smile and a light squeeze on his shoulder before the forger loudly declares that they all should go home now, Arthur thinks the words would’ve been kinder. 

“well, you would’ve butchered their names anyway, darling”, eames would whisper, years later, months later, days later, lips brushing over Arthur’s heated lips, hands roaming over planes of flushed skin. “and it would’ve been not so nice to lie to an old couple”.

and Arthur would agree. he liked their own names better, anyway.