Possibly, I'm Insane

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On the one hand, they live in a city and don’t even own a car.

On the other hand, he and Eames have opinions on Lucky knowing survival skills and driving is definitely one of them.  

“We ought to teach her how to drive in dreams,” Eames suggests. “That would be the best way to learn. We can really go full throttle.”

Arthur isn’t so sure. “I don’t want her to think dream driving is like waking driving. She’ll develop bad habits.”

“Not at all! I really learned to drive in dreams, you know.”

“That explains a lot,” Arthur murmurs.

“We should create a winter wonderland,” Eames announces.

Arthur isn’t even surprised. This seems very Eamesian.

“In the indoor forest,” Eames continues.

That does make sense, Arthur thinks.  

“We can invite the local schools to come on field trips! The kids will love it!”

“Kids?” Arthur echoes. “If you’re inviting kids, you need to—”

“Have reindeer!” Eames exclaims. “And you can play Santa Claus.”

“No reindeer,” Arthur is saying, before he catches up to that. “And I’m not playing Santa Claus! You should play Santa Claus!”

“How can I play Santa Claus when you’re the jolly one?” Eames counters.

A line of poker chips shows up on the floor of the living room one day. Arthur cleans it up.

Lucky is alarmed. “But where are the poker chips?”

“I put them away,” Arthur says blankly. “Why? Did you want them?”

“Yes. I’m counting blessings!” Lucky retrieves the poker chips from the drawer. “See? One for you, one for me, one for the cat, one for malasadas, yum. One for my purple tie you got me. One for that glitter bath bomb. So many blessings.”

Arthur sits with her and honestly, within the hour they’ve run out of poker chips.

“I think,” says Eames, “that it’s very important that we pretend to be dating.”

Arthur stares at him. “What? Why?”

“I think the mark will be more likely to trust us if he thinks we’re madly in love with each other.”

“Why?” Arthur asks again.

“People who are obviously beloved by wonderful people—” Eames indicates himself—“are considered by strangers to be more trustworthy than frowny, uptight people on their own. Studies show this.”

“What studies?”

“Lots of studies. Stop quarrelling, darling, and hold my hand, quick before the mark concludes that you’re frowny and uptight and not beloved.”

Arthur has an inventory of their Christmas ornaments.

“Look,” Arthur says. “This is the only way we can keep organized. You own over a thousand ornaments.”

“We own over a thousand ornaments.”

“Yes, and sometimes you say things like, ‘The only thing we can put on this branch is the ice blue metallic boot we bought in Lucerne that trip we took when your wisdom teeth started bothering you.’”

“And then you save the day, darling, as you always do, by pulling up your inventory and knowing exactly where that ornament is.” Eames beams at him and kisses his earlobe.

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Arthur was the dreamer, so Eames was expecting the dreamscape to be perfect, pristine, as Arthur’s dreamscapes were.

Eames was definitely not expecting the octopus. Right there, in the middle of the suburban mall.

The mark said, “Is that an octopus?” and Eames engineered a distraction.  

When the job was over, and the team was berating Arthur, Eames said, “It turned out fine.” But then, to Arthur, “An octopus?”

Arthur muttered, “Sorry.”

“Everyone makes mistakes, darling. It’s just…an octopus? What were you thinking?”

“The way you sleep,” Arthur admitted, blushing. “Like an octopus. Arms and legs everywhere. Whatever.”

Eames grinned.

Arthur had been typically pragmatic in his teenage parenting approach. “We cannot expect her to tell us everything, Eames. Who tells everyone everything? Everyone has secrets. We cannot condemn her for keeping secrets sometimes.”

Eames agreed, because he had despised hypocrisy in his parents and had vowed never to be that kind of father (when being a father at all became a possibility).

Then Lucky met The Boy, and Arthur hired a world-class assassin to follow him. “Don’t hurt him. Just tell us what you think.”

Eames didn’t even think this was overkill. He thought this was merely more pragmatism.

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“I believe,” Eames proclaims, “that the most challenging people to design for are…” Eames pauses.

Arthur glances up from the comps he’s looking at, eyebrows raised.

“Dramatic pause,” Eames explains.

Arthur rolls his eyes.

“Children!” Eames announces.

“Children,” Arthur repeats flatly. “You find children hard to design for?”

“Absolutely. Why do you sound dubious, darling?”

“Because you’re basically an overgrown child yourself. We live in a house with rivers in the hallways, and you wanted a chocolate garden like Willy Wonka. You design instinctively for children.”

Eames considers. “I will take that as a compliment.”

Arthur admits it basically is.

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“I just helped Lucky write a letter to Santa,” said Eames.

“And?” prompted Arthur.

“‘Dear Santa,’” Eames read aloud dramatically, “‘last year you didn’t bring me a leopard so this year I’m requesting a penguin, that should be easier for you, since you’re in the North Pole.’”

“She does make a logical point.”

“Hang on, I’m not done,” Eames said, and continued reading, “’Also, penguins remind me of my dad Arthur because they’re always so well-dressed.’ Got to say, she’s not wrong, and she’s very sweet.”

“It is sweet,” Arthur agreed, touched, and then, “I remind you of a penguin?” 

The lights go out in the middle of a joint interview segment.

Eames says, “What the hell.”

Luisa calls from the hallway, “Power’s out!”

It’s pitch-black in the house. Kalinda pulls her cell phone out and turns it into a flashlight.

Arthur remarks, “Oh, no. Our house is very dangerous in the dark.”

“Why do you say that?” asks Eames.

In the hallway, Luisa swears loudly.

“Oh,” says Arthur drily, “no reason, just the massive amounts of construction we live in at all times.”

“Hmm,” says Eames. “Good point. Everyone! Freeze until the power comes back on!”

“Pragmatic,” says Arthur.