The Birdcage

Chapter One

Enjoy

Quite a few Author's Notes:

There's quite a lot I want to say about this fic, but let's start with explaining what it is: this is a fusion AU which involves me taking our much loved Inception characters and inserting them into the storyline of the 1996 film "The Birdcage" which starred Robin Williams, Nathan Lane, Gene Hackman, and Dianne Wiest. The Birdcage is one of my favorite films. It's the greatest political advocacy for gay rights film you can find that isn't actually a political advocacy film and also has singing, dancing, and humor ranging from family appropriate to macabre. Arthur plays the role of Armand, a middle-aged gay nightclub owner, Eames is playing the role of Albert, the star of the club and Armand's long-time partner, and Ariadne is playing Val, Arthur's grown child.

Another thing I wanted to speak about was Robin Williams. The Birdcage is one of my favorite films, as I said, and it wouldn't be what it is without its truly spectacular cast. This is a film that I hope they never do a remake of because the talent that's showcased in the film just isn't something that we can currently replicate. Part of what makes the wonderful cast so successful is Robin Williams leading them. I was devastated, in the way that only a kid who grew up watching Robin could be, when I heard about Robin's death. This fic is at least partially done in memory of his wonderful humor, a range of laughs that drew in every crowd.

This fic is originally based on a kink meme prompt on the Inception kink community on Livejournal. I'm doing my best to find the original prompt, but it's been three years. Most embarrassingly, I think I was filling my own prompt. I lost interest in this story about halfway through writing it, and then when Robin Williams passed away I quickly decided I wanted to finish this fic and finally get it posted. I will try to update with more info if I find the prompt. I wanted to close the thread with the completed prompted.

Now for the technical bits: warnings, sensitivities and such. This is a fic about a same-sex couple based on a film with very 1990s specific humor. There is cross-dressing, liberal use of pronouns and gender identification, and plenty of political party platform bashing on both sides. If you have a sensitivity to gender identification I would urge you not to read. I had previously posted a fic a few years ago where the term 'wife' was used to label a male character jokingly and the reader had an adverse reaction. This fic is filled with loose gender titles and roles. Gender is thrown everywhere and used like play-doh. Please be advised. There is swearing, briefly described sexual scenes, and adult themes.

Also, just so we're clear: this is pretty much what fandom would define as "crackfic". You've been warned.

Disclaimer: I don't own either the Inception characters or The Birdcage story. This fic, like all of my fanfiction, is intended for personal entertainment and not sale or reproduction.

X-_X-_X

The name on the outside of the club said "the birdcage" in lowercase bistro style writing that would have belonged better on Parisian streets, but just like its name the club had an uncanny, understated appeal. During the day when the lights were off, people rushed the streets and slums of New York City with only themselves in mind.

It was an entirely different cup of tea when night fell and the lights came on and the spotlights shone.

Looking at the sign you'd suddenly see more than you thought was first there. A person could stand outside all night musing about the crowds of people that stormed the entrance. Man, woman, and everything in between positively crowded the lines each and every night. The call was strong with the birdcage.

This was humanity. This was people. This was family.

This was a celebration of acceptance. Opening the doors to the club was better than any release a person could find.

You face, your clothes, your make-up, your style, your words, your accent, your mind and your manners – in the birdcage there were no divides and barriers. Bodies moved and limbs weaved and from dusk until dawn that was all that mattered.

Welcome to the birdcage.

X-_X-_X

Arthur suppressed a sigh as he manhandled the bottle of tequila out of his bartender's hand. He shouted over the music with effort and resisted the urge to reach a hand up and pull at his slick-backed hair.

"Okay," he leveled a flat look at the young Thai man, "let me repeat myself again: Even if you feel bad for the poor, sober masses you cannot, under any circumstances, decide to fill every underage glass with tequila. Or rum. Or whisky. Or even fucking vodka."

Xiao looked back at him with an equally flat gaze, "I don't understand."

Arthur pushed the irritated groan back down and pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn't keep standing here like this, the music was already changing into the next number and he had a club full of patrons that needed their myriad releases. Being a club owner wasn't all it was cracked up to be. He used to think there would be more than defending his liquor license.

"Look!" he said, "If they don't have ID, then don't serve them, understand?"

"Yes, Mr. Halpert." The tone was acquiescing if you ignored the petulance, sass, and blatant disregard that came with it.

Arthur grudgingly relinquished the tequila, setting it back on the bar, and looped around behind his customers, greeting a few regulars as he went. If he was going to lose the license he might as well make sure the club makes a buck while he was at it.

This club was a dream of his that he'd had two decades to revel in. They did drag shows every Thursday and Sunday, eighties night twice a week—because it's practically a way of life—and every other night and performance was dedicated to letting anyone and everyone be just the person they wanted to be.

Being a Friday night it was packed, but Arthur's gait was familiar to many of the club goers and they let him duck and weave through them with little resistance. In return Arthur gamely ignored it when a hand wandered or a hip gyrated a bit too close. He would let them have their fun, for now.

"Niagara Falls!" a petite Latino boy all but shrieked, grabbing at Arthur's elbow. The boy's drink sloshed and Arthur hoped for the sake of his shirt that the boy wasn't going to leave finger marks.

"What?" Arthur asked before he could shake the boy off. The kid looked vaguely familiar; second cousin's boyfriend of a friend of a friend of a friend most likely.

"Bunch of us are going to Niagara Falls this weekend—to make it official!" Arthur recognized the younger man better now—a friend of Eames' that had performed on stage a couple times who had a particularly revolting lizard tattoo across his neck.

Oh, Arthur thought, the Marriage Bill. New York getting same-sex marriage equality had been a record money making weekend at the club, and Arthur hadn't resisted the urge to celebrate either, the results of which were still carefully hidden in his closet upstairs. It wasn't that Arthur didn't recognize the irony in that, it's just the only place he had to hide anything that Nash's nosy hands couldn't find.

"So?" the boy was tugging on Arthur's pressed shirt, adding more wrinkles to it even though Arthur had been distractedly tugging at the cuffs all day, effectively wrinkling it himself in his nervousness.

"You and Eames want to make it official or what?"

Arthur felt a flush rise to his cheeks even as he bid the boy farewell and assured him that he'd have fun at Niagara Falls even without Arthur or Eames there. After all, he had told the boy, who would make sure the club wasn't burned down if Arthur wasn't there? He'd sent the boy off laughing.

Turning back to watch the pop number that was gradually garnering more and more attention on stage he caught something out of the corner of his eye.

From where Arthur was in the crowd he could just see the left wing of the stage—the wing where his stage manager, Yusuf, seemed to be having fits.

"What the hell is going on now?" Arthur bristled and took off towards the stage entrance as fast as he could. "If one more thing goes wrong tonight I'm retiring to Boca."

"I want your bad romance…" filtered through the club.

X-_X-_X

"I can't find Eames anywhere!" Yusuf waved his clipboard like a bayonet through the air. Pinning an eye on every stage hand he saw, as if they are hiding the star of the show from him on purpose.

"You can't find Eames?" the swelling anger that was apparent with the question announced the arrival of Yusuf's boss. Stage hands scattered with practiced swiftness.

"Arthur!" Yusuf spun around, half wishing he could shrink into the stage curtains and never come out again. "Bloody hell," he muttered.

"Bloody is right," Arthur didn't even bother hiding his displeasure. These games that his partner played were old hat to him by this point. "You've had no sign of Eames?"

"No," Yusuf immediately started walking towards his usual post: the booth where he handled all stage coordination. It was wishful thinking that Arthur wouldn't be snapping at his heels as he went.

"Yusuf," Arthur's growl was low. The stage hands in the immediate vicinity exchanged looks. Their boss had a specific way of running his club; their boss's partner had a specific way of blowing that all to hell.

"Okay," the darker skinned man threw his arms up, clipboard included. "He was back here before the show started, miffed about something. But, honestly, I was too busy; I mean have you seen the crowd we have tonight? Unbeliev—."

"Yes I've seen the crowd," Arthur said tiredly, realizing that soon he was not only going to have to hunt down his errant star but also prevent his stage manager from anxiety induced chest palpitations…again.

"—there's at least one of the Kennedy clan here tonight!"

"Kennedys?" Arthur was immediately derailed. His eyebrows rose "Caroline?"

"No," Yusuf shrugged, deflating a bit, "the younger ones I think."

"Right," Arthur nodded, swallowing the new information with as much outward dignity as he could. "I will find Eames, you: back to the show."

"What do I do?" Yusuf said, eyes beginning to go wild and wide again. Arthur wondered if he even wanted to know what substance was ping-ponging its way around the man's body. If it was able to make him this excitable, not even half way through the show, then Arthur figured it was a felony he didn't need to be clued in on. The health code violations in his kitchens were bad enough. "Do I send Carmen on?"

"No," Arthur shook his head. That move was more likely to cause a riot, "just stall for now."

Before Arthur could go any further, however, he bumped into his house maid, who had no doubt just run down in a panic from the apartment over the club. The man was sweating glitter.

"Nash," Arthur said tersely. He was varying between stages of anger and despair, "where is Eames?"

"Mr. Eames says he shan't go on!"

"'Shan't go on' being his exact words I'm assuming?" Arthur very carefully willed his blood pressure down and ran a hand through his hair; he was so wired at this point that he didn't even notice the limb shaking. Kennedys for God's sake.

"Yes," Nash nodded emphatically, choosing not to acknowledge his boss's caustic sarcasm, as per usual. "He's still in his robe."

Arthur whirled around, motioning for Yusuf to get into the stage box and do something. "Get back up there and tell him to get ready now!" Arthur snarled as calmly to Nash as he could "Merde, I don't have time for the drama queen act tonight!"

Yusuf at least attempted to look sympathetic from his post; the rest of the stage crew near them simply attempted to avoid Arthur's gaze, and therefore his anger, and tried not to grin too noticeably while they did so.

"Tell Carmen that she can get ready to lead the boys," Arthur said, making a decision and turning fast, "but anticipate Eames!" he shouted, already halfway up the stairs.

"Men are supposed to be fucking simpler," Arthur muttered rebelliously, nearly tripping his way onto the landing. "Fucking Christ."

X-_X-_X

"You have to get up!" Nash whined at the blanketed lump in the middle of the king size bed. "Mr. Arthur's going to be up soon and he's already in one of his fits."

"I don't bloody give a damn!" returned the lump, the bed clothes giving an emphatic shake. "He can stuff it for all I care. The stage will not see me tonight! I'll be quite content to die here by myself, ta."

"I know," Nash said cajolingly, "but maybe you could just get your pants on, hm?"

"Nash," the lump said "Do you have a young man's dreams? I had dreams too. Beautiful dreams! They were fantastic dreams!"

"Not to be blunt or anything," Nash said, cutting off the dramatic diatribe before it could get into full swing "Mr. Arthur may not be willing to take his volcanic anger out on you when he gets up here, but I don't pretend that I'll be given the same mercy. Pants, please, Mr. Eames."

"Do you know how Victoria Page died?" the lump declared, voice slipping like oil into long, posh vowels.

"No," Nash retorted. He raised the loose trousers that Eames would have to wear as part of his costume for that night's performance and attempted to slip one of the lump's exposed legs into them.

"She died alone, waiting for her lover!"

Nash made reassuring noises, still attempting to wrestle the bared legs into costume. It wasn't working. He huffed.

"EAMES!"

The shout came from the apartment's back entrance, the club entrance. Immediately Nash made a break for the bedroom door but the lump threw back the blankets that were covering him and dashed towards the door before Nash could get there. Aggravatingly, this was practically a routine with them.

"Eames," Arthur tried to get through before the door shut but came up short, catching sight of a silk dressing gown amid a flash of tattoos before he was abruptly closed out of his own bedroom. "Eames, babe, come on, let me in. Let me in!"

"No!" Eames shouted from the inside of the room, angry and emphatic he repeated himself several times at varying degrees of volume.

Nash tried to shove the Englishman away from the door latch but received an elbow to the diaphragm for his efforts. "I don't want to see him! He'll think I'm a right hideous sight anyway," Eames exclaimed amid trying to drag the nightstand in front of the door. His posh vowels disappeared under the weight of East End solemnity.

"This is domestic bliss alright," Arthur was muttering from the other side of the door. His temper jumped to irate as he began yanking earnestly at the door knob. "Can't believe he won't open the fucking door. Am I living with a child? I am, aren't I?" Finally after one good yank he pulled the knob right out of the door.

Arthur gave a wordless shout of frustration, slapping his hands against the wood of the door. Finally he tried jamming his shoulder into the door, hearing nothing but confused shouting from the other side of it. Arthur backed up, prepared to run straight at the door. There was no time for delicacy.

"Eames!" Arthur shouted. The door flew back, its hinges squeaking in protest as Arthur erupted through the door. Nash was thrown unceremoniously to the side. Neither of the other two men paid him any attention.

"Are you trying to ruin me?" Arthur demanded. Eames refused to look at him though; instead he fled across the room to their walk in closet. Arthur followed hot on his heels.

For a few moments they wrestled amongst the clothing. They may or may not have been attempting to strangle one another with suit jackets and drag night lingerie. A belt buckle came dangerously close to cutting a line into Arthur's cheek.

"Don't look at me!" Eames threatened. "Don't look at me with those underappreciating eyes of yours, you inelegant yank!"

Arthur threw himself away from the mess of fabrics, he found himself mouthing along to Eames' usual hysterics as the man declared, "Those underappreciating, demeaning, cold eyes of yours!"

"Is this supposed to be new material?" Arthur asked dryly. The tangent was the same time and time again, the situation acting as the only differing factor. "No wonder comedy night is in a slump."

Eames paused in extricating himself from a particularly dashing paisley jacket to shoot Arthur an unimpressed and insulted look "There you go!" he threw his arms up, "Always taunting me."

Arthur cycled between trying to quell his anger so that he could move Eames along and wanting to shoot at the man and tackle him flat with rage. "We have a packed house downstairs," Arthur settled on growling. He strode purposefully forward; he'd drag Eames into costume if that was what it took. It wouldn't be hard to wrestle some clothes on him, it wasn't even drag night.

"Aha, that sums it up well doesn't it, darling?" Eames bemoaned, wounded lover act now in full swing, "I'm just a meal ticket to you aren't I? Best summon immigration now. All ye huddled masses indeed!"

Arthur was left once again mouthing along to Eames' usual diatribe while Eames stalked across the room. The man gave a superfluous adjustment to his robe and then turned on Arthur with a huff.

"I'm well aware that it's all about your show, love," Eames continued, as if this were a monolog of particular passion, "Not even our show, hm? It's all your show. The great and mighty Arthur Halpert."

Arthur crossed his arms and stared steadily back at his partner, unblinking. That's what they told school children right? Ignore them and they'll stop?

"I want equality, Arthur." Eames said, soft and slow with far more somber an attitude than he had been acting with before that point. He looked as if he were trying to get a message across the space between them.

"What more equality do you want?" Arthur asked, and then sarcastically he countered "Shall I inquire with Washington as to whether we can get an amendment in your name? It might have to wait until morning, you know, with me having to run a club and all and not really having that much time for constitution rendering."

Eames rolled his eyes, "You'll find the self-sacrificing martyr only looks good on one of us, pet," he muttered. Then he jabbed a finger in Arthur's direction, taking on his over exaggerated tangential approach from a few minutes before, "and don't take that tone with me!"

Arthur analyzed the situation and switched gears, "What tone?" he asked, trying for contrite. However, Arthur had never really been one for convincing emotional facades. Eames had seen fit to point that fact out on many an occasion.

Eames must have been feeling particularly in character tonight because he began to pull out the big guns. "That tone! That contemptuous, bloody tone. The one that says you know everything because you have the fancy university degree and the deed in your name, and I know nothing because I live only to please you, my heart's partner, and costume myself in pretty little dresses every Thursday and Sunday for the amusement of your club."

"Sounds like a personal problem," Arthur replied, deadpan. He didn't try for the appeasing lover role anymore; it wasn't worth the energy, "Shall I call on Dr. Nelson? He's dressed as Cher downstairs as we speak."

Eames had whipped one of the silken pillows off their bed and at Arthur before he had even spoken. Arthur watched it fall from his chest to the floor with a look that clearly stated that he wasn't quite sure when this became his life.

Eames turned his gaze to Nash "See what he's made me into?" Eames asked.

"I don't think—," Nash tried to raise his hands, trying to stay out of the verbal brawl.

"I was young once-,"

"Still older than me," Arthur cut in. He picked a neon colored feather from his shirtsleeve.

Eames continued as if he were uninterrupted, "and I had more talent than the lot of them-,"

"You still have talent," Arthur intoned. He could say it a thousand times but on occasions like this, where Eames pushed to the edge of dramatics, it rarely proved anything.

Eames gave up on kvetching to Nash, he whirled back on Arthur. At which point Arthur figured that Eames must really only wear the silk robes for the added dramatic effect during these melodramatic moments.

Yusuf ran through the door, tripping on the debris that littered the doorway.

"The number's almost over," he said, bending over and gasping to catch his breath. Arthur made a note that the gym membership that they'd gotten the man for Christmas clearly hadn't been used. "Do I send Carmen on?'

Arthur narrowed his eyes. If Eames wanted to play this game with him he would be all too willing to acquiesce and play it back. "Yes," Arthur said, leveling Eames with a daring look.

Eames had to grin for a moment. Touché, he thought to himself. He made sure to slip back into character easily enough, giving a dismayed cry of betrayal in reaction to Arthur's words. "No!"

"Yes!"

Yusuf was caught between the two of them as they both crowded around the man, Nash slipping away from the trio.

"You can't have that barely legal, cheeky, little bastard lead the boys!"

"We have no choice," Arthur said, nodding sagely. He made a shooing gesture to Yusuf.

"I will damn well go on," Eames announced, he put a hand to his chest in the picture of righteous dignity, "The people have come to see me give them my best, and I'll bloody well do it, I will!"

He made sure to toss Arthur a saucy look as he turned to go stand in front of the full length mirror. "And I'll do it for the fans, not for anyone else."

"Put on the Mumbo number," Arthur said at once, his mind taking on the cold calculations of a business man, "tell Beatrice and Dante to get the fog rolling and the lights set."

Yusuf nodded and jogged from the room, leaving at a much slower pace than he had arrived with.

Eames made Arthur help him over to his dressing table, feigning weakened breath and knees.

"Nash," Eames called out, "my boy, I need some of those brilliant Pirin Tablets."

"Pirin Tablets?" Arthur demanded, trying to keep his voice level, "What are Pirin Tablets? What are you taking?"

"Nothing," Eames replied dismissively, rolling his eyes. He shook Arthur off and slumped into the chair of his dressing table. He turned his eyes purposefully away from Arthur, turning to greet Nash with a smile.

"Okay, but just one," Nash was saying, cocking his hips and acting as if he were speaking to a child, "one before the show and one after."

Arthur narrowed his eyes, trying to calculate just what Nash's mystery tablets were. Their shape and color didn't immediately make him recognize any of the usual narcotics. He jutted his chin out and gave Nash a piercing look.

Eames stuttered out a handful of over the top British sounding thank-yous before snatching Nash's hand up and laying a light kiss on the knuckles. He connected eyes with Arthur in the mirror purposefully.

Arthur flipped him off in return.

When Nash had finished bustling around the table in his usual lady-in-waiting routine Arthur warily approached his partner. He stretched out tentative hands to rub the other man's shoulders. It lasted a few seconds, Eames reflexively relaxing into the familiar touch and smiling into the mirror.

"Will you please stop that," Eames said once he caught himself, slapping at Arthur's hands and shrugging him off, "please, I have to prepare."

Arthur gave up for now, knowing that if he pushed any further the talk would descend into bickering and the show would be that much later. He left the room, but only after pinning Nash with a stare and making sure that he tugged the other man after him.

"What was that?" Arthur demanded, reaching backwards to draw the door shut almost all of the way. He heard Eames flip the lid off of something that must be the stage oil, a substance that managed to show of the man's well sculpted upper body muscles in a way that Arthur always appreciated.

Now was not the time to be distracted.

"What?" whined Nash in return, shuffling out of the doorway.

"Why are you giving him drugs?"

"It's just aspirin, man," Nash jerked his arm out of Arthur's grasp, pouting, "with the 'A' and the 'S' scratched off."

Arthur felt a bit of the night's tension wilt away at the news. He had never known Eames to take drugs in the past and was relieved to find out he didn't have to worry about it now either. Arthur knew he'd be on the war path if he ever found out that Eames was doing something so harmful. He would burn anything in his path. The protective way he took care of his partner was something that people had had to reconcile themselves with in the past.

This fit was only the latest in a long line of dramatics since Eames had begun to distance himself a bit from Arthur. Arthur couldn't tell what was going on. He didn't have all the information on the situation and it was driving him up a wall. Arthur hated dealing with Eames' stage persona; he preferred to deal with his real partner, the man with whom he had spent the past twenty years.

"That is uncommonly brilliant of you, Nash," Arthur drawled, reaching forward and patting the man's cheek. He was grateful for his housemaid, at least for a second or two.

Nash rolled his eyes again, flaring his nostrils, "As Mr. Eames says: 'Your condescension is appreciated.'"

"Best not steal his lines," Arthur snorted, "you know he hates when people try to imitate his show."

Nash just waved a hand in the air, after three years employment with the two men a night like this in the household was practically boring. He began to pick up the mess that had formed in the apartment, tugging at the pant leg of his cut off jean shorts absentmindedly.

After stepping bare foot on a door splinter he did take a moment, though, to shake his fist at the closed, slightly unhinged door, and swear in his pretend native tongue.

X-_X-_X

"Indifference is the most awful thing in the world."

Arthur scowled at Eames in the mirror. He sat on the corner of the bed and watched as Eames began to put together his look for the night. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Eames didn't answer the question. Truly the man knew how to tap dance on Arthur's last nerve.

"I've done every bloody thing I could do to make this house a home, haven't I, love?"

"Yes, Martha Stewart," Arthur replied, looking at his cuticles in disinterest, "you most certainly have."

"I've done what I can to make myself attractive too, hm?"

Arthur cracked his neck. He wondered idly if he shouldn't book a deep tissue massage for the next day, he figured he deserved a bit of hedonism. "Eames you're being ridiculous."

"So you don't want me then?"

Arthur was used to the usual frivolous arguments, but he was able to pick up when one of the frivolous arguments turned into something more. He turned to connect his gaze with Eames'.

"What are you talking about?" Arthur said, and if he were being honest with himself there was pleading in his tone. "For twenty years you've been the only man I've ever had eyes for."

Arthur thought that the serious, devoted words, words that he didn't use as often as he should, would be enough to assuage Eames of whatever fears had fueled that night's debacle, but they didn't. Eames turned in his chair, and looked at the ground instead of at Arthur.

For once, Arthur watched his lover become speechless. It wasn't a good speechless either, Arthur's shrewd eyes thought that Eames looked like he had something painful to say, and that he wasn't quite sure how to say it.

"You don't love me anymore, Arthur."

It's an indicator of how ridiculous those words were that Arthur's first response was to scoff and say "Please."

Arthur crossed his legs and buried his face in one hand "That is the most unfounded—."

"There's someone else in your life."

"What?" Arthur demanded, his hand dropped and he planted his feet flat on the floor and stared at Eames in pure astonishment. "How do you figure?"

Eames was looking anywhere but at Arthur. When he spoke his tone was normal, but the way he strove for flippancy was stressed. "Maybe I've gone psychic, love. Maybe I've gone psychic and maybe the bottle of white wine in the refrigerator has something to do with it too, hm?"

Arthur sat up straighter on reflex. He tried not to let his immediate panic blossom onto his face, but he was afraid that his heart was racing so fast that surely Eames could hear it. He hadn't figured that Eames would even notice the wine. What was he going to tell him now?

"I only drink red," Eames said, leaning forward and talking in hushed tone, as if they were sharing a secret, "and so do you."

Eames grabbed a silver chain off the dressing table and moved to kneel in front of Arthur so that his lover could latch the chain around his neck. It was a routine they had had since almost day one.

"There's no man," Arthur said softly after clearing his throat. Eames rested a hand on Arthur's stomach, tender. "I'm switching to white because they're saying that red has tannins."

Eames was still, watching Arthur's face with careful, weary eyes. Arthur was honestly floored by the exchange. This was the most seriously suspicious his lover had ever been of him. They'd been dedicated to one another for years, and yes, Arthur was hiding something, but he couldn't tell Eames about it. Not just yet.

"Now, listen," Arthur said, and dammit if his voice wasn't shrill to his own ears, "there's a couple hundred people down there that have all come to see you perform, half of them are the Kennedy cast offs, but they're all waiting to cheer for you."

Eames' face tightened, and for once his expression wasn't one of demonstrative emotion but of closed off anger. He shoved Arthur flat on his back using the hand that had been resting so comfortably on his stomach "Tannins?" he demanded.

"What is it that you do when I'm down there, playing marionette for the world?" Eames demanded of Arthur's prone figure, his overly dramatic stage persona back in place. Queen's English coming off crisp and clear.

"Nothing," Arthur said, and it was really just the years of using sarcasm as a shield that made the response come out less than sincere. "I lay here."

"I know that look," Eames said with an eyebrow raised high. "You feeling like a brawl then? Come on, hit me."

Arthur spared Eames an unimpressed look and raised his wrist in front of his face so that he could squint at the time. Arthur rolled his eyes and shoved a hand in Eames' face to thrust him away, ignoring Eames' indignant squawk of surprise.

Below, in the club, the number on stage was just getting ready to go into its final sequence.

Showtime.

X-_X-_X

Arthur surveyed his club from Yusuf's booth. This rush, this adrenaline that flooded his veins while doing it, this was why he had gotten into showbiz. Arthur took a breath, a genuine smile working its way onto his face. Then he picked up the microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, pausing. His voice rasped lower and the crowd hushed in delighted anticipation. "I give you the one, the only, the incomparable…Eames."

Immediately all the lights in the club flickered and went out. The crowd began to cheer, the thrill building for what was coming next. Lights began to flicker to life on stage, and slower music began to filter in. Fog crawled across the smooth surface of the stage.

The spotlight flared to life, almost painful against the stark darkness of before. A lone man stood center stage. He wore loose pants, a tight black sleeveless shirt, and his tattoos seemed to dance in the rotation of stage lights. A fedora was tilted on the man's head, obscuring his eyes from the crowd.

The crowd went mad. This was who they had come to see. This was the man they raved about.

Arthur grinned, leaning forward expectantly. His partner was energy and brilliance in its purest form. Two decades since first watching him perform on a stage and he was just as intoxicatingly attractive as that first matinee.

Then the music came to life.

Out of the shadows of the back of the stage sprung to life six other men, all small and lither than Eames in center stage. Three rushed each side of him, and while they began a steady demonstration of rhythm with their hips Eames alone remained still, one arm still posed on his hip, the other holding the fedora.

The crowd dared not to blink, not wanting to miss the moment he came to life.

Finally, the chorus kicked in and the man at center stage burst into life. He threw his hands up at the same time as the other boys did and blended seamlessly into the dance routine that he and Arthur had so painstakingly choreographed. At the same time he thrust a hip forward, leering at the crowd.

Arthur watched from the wing, mesmerized the same as he was all those years ago when he had first seen Eames dance. They'd been in the same company. They'd danced on stage together, hit it big together, and they'd fallen in love together as well.

Their fights had been legendary. Loud and dramatic, they used to be able to have shouting matches up until the instant they went on stage and then they could perform flawlessly before stepping off stage and continuing the argument right where they had left off. The making up after the argument had always been worth it.

Arthur had been signed to a contract with a price tag larger than he could've imagined, and then…well, life had changed. He'd finished what was necessary and then taken all his money and put it into the club that he still managed and called home. Eames had followed without Arthur ever having to ask.

They'd rarely spent a day of their lives apart from one another since then.

Eames and the boys whirled through a complicated series of arm movements before dipping low and sliding across stage on their knees then flawlessly jumping to their feet and continuing their choreography. They turned sideways and then Eames was facing Arthur.

Arthur knew that the same dopey, dimpled grin that Eames always teased him about would be on his face. He couldn't help it. The first time he'd ever told Eames how he felt about him it had been by saying: "I'm stupid in love with you." The words were still true to this day.

Arthur nodded to Eames and the other man smiled. But, Arthur realized he was breaking the routine a bit, making small modifications to the dance steps so that he was still facing the wing and Arthur. Before Arthur could raise a questioning brow at his partner the other man raised an arm in Arthur's direction, gesturing to his ring finger, and mouthed the words of the song right at him.

"If you like it then you should have put a ring on it!"

"What?" Arthur muttered, he looked over his shoulder to glance at Yusuf but the other man was too busy with lighting cues to even have noticed the exchange. When Arthur looked back Eames was facing the crowd again, displaying his talent for all.

Arthur shoved the mystery away as fast as he could, distracting himself by looking down at his watch. If he didn't start heading upstairs he'd be late. This was one date that he refused to be late for.

He moved to the second set of curtains, trying to keep his movements nonchalant. As if by magnetism the next heated beat of dance steps had Eames and the boys turning full circle, hips gyrating, and Eames managed to pin Arthur with a suspicious look. Arthur tried to smile reassuringly.

When he finally could, Arthur moved quickly off the wing and turned to hurry up the steps. He tried not to feel guilty, but he didn't quite manage it.

The first of Eames' numbers faded away and Arthur shook himself. He had other things to worry about.

X-_X_-X

Arthur was rushing past the apartment's kitchen on his way to his bedroom to fetch a fresh button down when he stopped and backtracked.

Nash was doing squats mostly naked in front of the refrigerator.

"Is this something I should be concerned about?" Arthur asked wickedly, grinning.

Nash stumbled up, tripping ungracefully into the island in the middle of the kitchen. He pouted at having been caught. "I have to stay in shape if you're ever going to let me be in the show."

"I wouldn't worry about maintaining your girlish figure then," Arthur sneered with delight, crossing his arms.

Nash picked up the feather duster that was on the counter besides him and brandished it at Arthur. "You know, my parents came here so that I could put my talent to good use."

"Your parents moved to the city from Utica so you can drop the Latin accent," Arthur said lightly, "You're very talented with a vacuum and for the minimum living wage you put that talent to extraordinary use."

Nash clutched the feather duster to his chest and made a whining noise. "You're too mean. Probably means you're going to die young."

"Nah," Arthur chuckled, turning to disappear down the hall "Probably means I'll live to terrorize the innocents for years to come."

"Yay," Nash mumbled. He pouted at the hallway and turned to begin cleaning up the kitchen,

Arthur was back soon enough, buttoning his cuffs as he entered the kitchen. Nash had half a mind to wonder why he was putting on his good onyx cuff links, but figured he wasn't willing to stretch the line between employed and fired too much in one night.

"Take the white wine from the refrigerator," Arthur began instructing him, taking an ice bucket from an overhead cabinet and setting it on the counter. "Put it on ice and then chill two glasses. After that, take the night off and get the hell out of my apartment."

Nash saluted him and then replied dryly, "Right away, sir, but whatever will I do with all that freedom?"

Arthur met deadpan tone with equally deadpan tone. "Keep it up and Eames will find out why his closet mysteriously misses garments."

"I'll tell him you're seeing somebody else while he's on stage," Nash countered, shaking the wine in Arthur's direction.

Arthur stalled in his excitable movements to turn and give Nash an unimpressed look. "Two words," he said, "Unemployment. Claim."

Nash made an insulted noise and set the wine in the ice bucket and transferred everything to a silver serving tray.

"Now, go. And leave the front door unlocked."

"Bitch," Nash muttered. When Arthur's footsteps had faded Nash picked up his iPod and strutted from the room. "It's you and me tonight, Gloria."

X-_X-_X

Arthur couldn't help humming as he stepped out onto the pool patio (what Eames insisted they call their 'lanai'i' because: "Darling, it sounds tropical!"). He plucked a small lighter off the side table and began to light as many candles as he could fit on its surface. She'd always loved candles, and Arthur would never forget the details when it came to her.

He realized he was nervous and it made him grin. He supposed he had the right. He hadn't gotten a night like this one in what feels like forever. Sometimes, only occasionally, the constant rush of his life made him feel out of sorts. However, it was nights like these ones that put him right back on track.

He set the last candle down with a satisfied 'clunk' at the same time as he heard a small noise. Arthur cocked his head towards the sliding glass door and waited. If he had been a less composed man he'd be jiggling his leg in ill-contained anxiousness.

Arthur wasn't kept waiting though, a short, gorgeous, and demurely shy woman appeared in sight. She was dressed casually, but the scarf around her neck made her seem elegant and refined for her years. A backpack was thrown carelessly over her shoulder.

"Hey," she said. It was soft, but her smile was getting wider by the second.

Arthur didn't respond immediately. But he met her as she moved out onto the patio. He managed to contain his excitement as he smiled fondly as her, kissing the corner of her mouth and pulling her smaller form against his. He closed his eyes as he relaxed into their embrace.

This, the moment he was having right this instant, was why he never cared or looked back on leaving the life he had before the club.

This was worth it.

Arthur leaned back some, fixing her with an impish grin that she didn't hesitate to return in style. "You're looking even more beautiful."

"Oh, please," she said, rolling her eyes. She smiled like she was still pleased with the compliment though, and the way she dropped her shoulder in feigned modesty was something that Arthur had never taught her. That was body language that the other parent that had raised her was responsible for.

"You look good, too," she continued, she poked his torso and strode past him to dump her bag at the leg of one of the pool chairs.

"I haven't made it to the gym in almost three weeks," Arthur said self-deprecatingly.

The woman just fixed him with a look though, reaching down to dip a hand in the pool water. It never changed; the pool was always kept at the same temperature that she'd always preferred. It had always been fitted to her needs and wants.

Arthur ran a careful hand along her shoulder, picking up a look of curly, brunette hair. The move was tender, and spoke of deep depths of devotion. She pinned Arthur with a look and Arthur shrugged, a little sheepish at being caught in an act of such whimsy.

"I'm glad you grew your hair out," was all he said to her.

She stood and then Arthur realized she had a funny look on her face. She was biting her lip in a way that she almost always never did. Arthur turned to the side so that she couldn't have a chance to say anything that he might dread.

"Are you hungry?" he asked instead "You've been travelling all day, of course you haven't eaten. That absentmindedness isn't something you got from me!"

"I'm not hungry," she replied softly. She thought it was good to hear the regular things again. The sounds of the city, and the way Arthur always had something to kvetch about in any tense situation. It was home.

"A drink then?"

"Beer if you have it?" She replied, trying not to sound too insincere in her request.

"I do not," Arthur scowled at her and rolled his eyes. As if she even should have asked. He moved towards the table where he had painstakingly arranged everything. "White wine?"

"Swell," she retorted, flippantly. She moved awkwardly to sit in the other pool chair, and her odd look and lip biting from earlier returned as she cast a nervous look into the apartment through the sliding glass door. "How long has Eames been on?"

"He just started his act," Arthur replied, his attention focused on pouring the wine perfectly "And I gave Nash the night off. We're alone, as you asked."

Arthur turned to carefully balance the wine glasses, he handed one to his female companion. He was afraid that he couldn't stop smiling. He was probably producing those damn dimples that Eames always raved about, but he couldn't bring himself to care about it either.

Arthur had reached down to pinch at her chin in a movement born out of routine but she pulled away from the touch.

"So, I have something to tell you," she said. She touched the wine glass to her lips, taking a brief sip. Arthur frowned and sat down and reclined back into the other chair, crossing his legs absentmindedly.

"Go ahead," Arthur said with all the levity of granting a royal pardon.

"But I don't want you to get how you get," she said heavily. "Eames is right when he says you throw fits."

Arthur froze in all movement. This time the look he gave her was suspicious and sardonic, not fondly bemused. "Oh, God," he said.

She bit the bullet. "I'm getting married."

Arthur immediately sat forward and put a frustrated hand to his forehead, kneading the temple. "Oh, no."

Arthur began shaking his head minutely. "Oh, no no no."

"I didn't want to, uh, tell you over the phone…"

Arthur began to take a deep drink of his wine as she continued to talk.

"…It's a boy (at that Arthur tipped the glass straight up) and I—I met him at school."

She stopped her explanation and then said incredulously, "Are you upset?"

Before even a breath could be taken Arthur said, "But let me tell you why."

She thought it was a bad sign that he was half grinning mockingly.

Arthur stood and she sighed and set the wine glass resignedly onto the patio tile.

"First," Arthur said, gearing up for a world class argument. "You are only twenty years old."

"I know I'm young, dad," she bit back, always having had inherited his temper, "but it was you that always said I was level headed, and responsible, and smart enough to make choices just like this one."

"I have career options already," she continued, she stood as well and threw her arms out in a gesture that Arthur knew all too well, though normally it was accompanied by some British colloquialism or another, "and I have a plan, and a great role model."

"Flattery," Arthur warned.

"No, look, I'm being serious." she said. "I was always the only one in my group of friends that never came from a broken home."

"You're not getting anywhere," Arthur tried again. He was calmly disinterested on the outside but all synapsis were firing on the inside. Of all the things he had carefully prepared for tonight what had actually been handed to him was probably the one thing he had never expected.

Finally she stopped talking and just looked at him. She took two steps forward and then asked, very evenly, "Is this alright?"

"Does it matter?" Arthur asked sarcastically. He looked at the pool instead of at his barely twenty year old daughter.

"Of course it does," she ground out hotly. "I want to hear you say that it's okay, especially before Eames comes back up here and starts hollering and going all sappy and overly British at us."

"I can't," Arthur replied, shaking his head, "and I definitely won't. This is ridiculous."

Her own temper, so like his, sky rocketed further but Arthur just railed over her. "If you do this you're on your own. Do you understand that? You don't come back here. You don't ask for my help. This is not a realistic choice, Ariadne."

She put her hands up and grabbed her bag up; she was a whorl of angry disbelief. "Okay!"

"Okay," Arthur echoed. His control had been tested so much in just this one day that he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to call it back. He wondered if he were on time for his mid-life crisis.

"Bye, dad," she stood firm on her ground, staring at him from in front of the patio entrance.

Arthur reached out, unable to keep the façade any longer. He wrapped his hands around her and sighed heavily into her hair. "You called my bluff."

"It was good," she said dryly, shoving him a little "But Eames has always told you that you have a million and one tells."

Arthur tried to chuckle, and then he tried to grumble. Mainly he succeeded into sighing again and running a hand through his hair, forcing it into anxious disarray.

"Tell me it's alright," she prompted him again. Her voice was faded though, unsure and vulnerable standing exactly as she used to stand as a kid, backpack in hand.

"It's alright, Ariadne," Arthur said, holding onto one of her hands. His voice was low and absolutely sincere, his face as pleading as he was willing to show. "I always expected this to happen, just not so soon."

Ariadne smiled, almost blindingly bright, and Arthur had to force down his resentment. University had been one thing, but now a husband was going to take his baby girl away too? It seemed like he never stopped losing his daughter, or fighting to get her to stay. Eames told him that he had to accept that their girl was "growing up".

Arthur just figured he should have bought her a chastity belt and some bars for her window.

"Drop your bags," Arthur said, straining for joviality, "stay awhile."

Ariadne did. And the way she looked at him when he filled their glasses with more wine told him that maybe she understood more that Arthur had thought. He swallowed thickly and then raised a glass "Let's have a drink to this catastrophe," after Ariadne threw him a sharp look that Arthur knew she had learned from him he was forced to amend, "I'm kidding. Somwhat."

Ariadne sipped her drink. Her shoulders were relaxing with just her standing there. And, Arthur could give her a true smile, a small reserved one, when he saw that because it meant one simple thing.

His daughter was home.

"What's the lucky boy's name?" Arthur asked, feeling his heart break just a little.

Ariadne beamed, "Robert."

X-_X-_X

"Absolutely not! Are you out of your mind?" Maurice's face flooded puce at just the thought. "You are barely twenty years old!"

Robert stared, rather morosely, back at his father. Before he could counter the argument that he knew was going to erupt when he mentioned his engagement his mother cut in in her soft, demure way.

"Who is this girl, Robbie? When's the last time you even saw her?"

"Ariadne, and please don't call be Robbie," Robert answered back immediately. Then, adopting the dry, robotic tone that his father loathed he reported "The last time I saw her was early this morning before leaving school. We've been sleeping with each other for a year."

"Good God!" Maurice exclaimed, throwing a hand up and slamming the book he had been feigning to read onto his desk, "Has she even been tested?"

"Maurice!" His mother's societal, snobbish sensibilities amused Robert at the best of times.

"Yes," Robert but back in, he sat up straighter when his father turned his full attention on him "And so have I. We're both clean, congratulations."

"Oh!" the fact that is mother managed to have honest to God tears in her eyes when she mocked shock and appall had long been a mystery to the youngest Fischer.

Maurice raised an eyebrow at his wife, but rather than going into similar hysterics he just sighed deeply and pegged Robert with a familiar, stern expression. "Look here, this will have to wait until after the elections."

Again, before Robert could have a moment to speak for himself, his mother cut into the conversation.

"Where does she come from Robbi—ert," his mother tried to gesture broadly, "Uh, who is her father?"

Robert stole a glance at his father. This is where things got tricky. "Her father's in the arts," he replied swiftly, with as little intonation as possible, "He's on the counsel—the uh, the Counsel of The Arts."

Robert took a breath. Truly, this had been easier in preparation with Ariadne. There had been less anxiety when lounging naked in bed with her than when sitting stiffly in his father's home office.

"The one that's funded at the Mapelthorpe exhibit?" Robert's father asked slowly, thinking.

Robert knew exactly how he was supposed to answer. His father rarely appreciated true art, and he held the Maplethorpe in low esteem. "Heavens no," Robert replied, feigning disgust, "He's, uh, a cultural attaché. A cultural attaché to France."

"Really?" Robert's mother asked with a delightful smile. For as much as Robert's father dreamed only of the skyline out his office window, Robert's mother dreamed of the skylines that she might escape to one day.

"What exactly, Robert, is a cultural attaché?"

Robert's mother answered, again, certain that she had every answer that need ever be asked for.

"Well that's," she paused and waved a hand around as if that could explain it, "well, that's sort of like an ambassador, it's rather a diplomatic post isn't it?"

Robert was thankful he wasn't the one that made it up.

His parent's shared a look of approval (to Robert's surprise) that was immediately ruined by another of his mother's questions. "What does her mother do?" she asked.

This, Robert knew, was the actual problem. Not to him, of course, and certainly not to Ariadne. But, his conservative, sheltered parents would never accept if he told them the truth.

In Ariadne's apartment that she shared with friends there were plenty of pictures, but there was only one picture that Ariadne ever kept on her nightstand. It was taken at her high school graduation. Robert had first admired it because nestled in between both of her parents Araidne managed to look absolutely delighted, and wonderfully happy and content.

The thing was—both the parents in that picture were men.

The one on the left had black, slick backed hair. He had an angular look to him, and while he was smiling widely for the entire world to see Araidne had assured Robert that not much got past her father. He was dressed in a businessman's outfit, though that day his suit jacket was over his shoulder and his sleeves were rolled up to counter the summer heat. He looked the part of the perfectly proud and caring father.

The other man had looked like a surrealist idea of cross culture beliefs. He had sunglasses pushed up over dark, sandy colored hair. He had a graphic t-shirt on underneath a wrinkled button down, and while he wore slacks he had a bangle of thick rings and bracelets on his hands and tattooed arms. He was grinning broadly, and his larger, more muscular arms, were clutching Ariadne in chuffed affection.

Ariadne had said the second man was "Eames", and until a while later Ariadne had never explained anything further, though Robert caught her occasionally calling this Eames man 'Papa Eames'. When she finally had told him more about her family she had explained everything with an air of protective anxiety, as if she dared anyone to try to tell her that her family wasn't good enough.

Robert had loved her even more just for that.

So, really, it was with the same idea of protectiveness that he opened his mouth to lie. He wanted to protect Ariadne and her family, and he didn't know if he'd be able to stand watching his father demean them if he knew the truth. So, yes, Robert said:

"She's a housewife."

He couldn't breathe even when his mother said brightly "Well that's refreshing, isn't it Maurice?"

His father grumbled, "I-I can't talk about this now."

Maurice picked his heavy hard cover tomb back up as the phone range. Robert dived forward to answer it before anyone else could make a move. When his father raised a questioning eyebrow Robert cleared his throat and straightened his shirt before calmly sitting back and answering.

"Hello?"

X-_X-_X

Ariadne grinned, Arthur standing protectively at her shoulder. "Did everything go alright?" she asked excitedly.

"Yes, er, ah, everything's fine. Mmhm."

"That's wonderful," Ariadne clapped her father on the back before gushing into the phone "I told my father and he's thrilled, he's so proud."

Before Arthur could protest she was going even further and saying, "He'd love to talk to you."

This time the look that Ariadne flashed him as she passed the cordless phone over was all Eames' influence.

X-_X-_X

"Aren't his parents in France right now?" Robert was startled, and turned around to find his father holding up a second phone across the room.

"Father!" Robert stuttered, "Get off the phone."

Robert managed to get Maurice to acquiesce by the time a second voice was calmly saying 'Hello, Robert?' in his ear.

"Hello, sir," Robert said at once, years of manners shoving straight to the forefront.

"Well, congratulations," Arthur said into the phone, his voice was stilted but Arthur thought he was being pleasant enough until Ariadne poked him roughly in his side "Shit," he mumbled, and then hoped the phone hadn't caught that.

"I'm afraid I can't talk long," Arthur was already making his excuses, Ariadne rolling her eyes in his periphery.

"That's alright!" Robert said hurriedly, before his father could try to pick up the line again "It was good talking to you. I'm sure we'll talk again soon. Have a good night, sir. Bye."

Robert could picture Ari's annoyed look well enough in his head but he had to do something quick to distract his father from his curiosity.

"How dare you do that?" Robert stood and demanded, as pompously and angered as he could manage. If he could deter his father from poking holes into Robert's improvised explanation that it might just save the night some grief.

Maurice wasn't playing with the same rules "You said the girl's parents were in France."

"They are," Robert said, quickly and with much less confidence.

"You saw this girl just this morning, it's barely dinner time now, and yet she's already in France with her parents?"

"No," Robert tried protesting, he slanted his eyes to look helplessly at his mother, "I, uh, France?"

His mother nodded.

"They're back," Robert said at once, trying to salvage as much as he could. "For the summer. They're at their home in New York. They like the, er, season festivities in the city."

"New York," his mother tittered excitedly. Robert hoped it distracted his father some. "Oh they must be able to go to all the best events. Are they right in Manhatten?"

Robert nodded. He felt exhausted already. "Yes, uh, pretty much," he replied, "they're very close to all the best sights."

His mother smiled and looked imploringly at his father. As if a piece of New York society would soothe their Glendale souls. Robert's father didn't look too convinced. However, the suspicion wilted.

Robert sighed, half in momentary relief and half in renewed panic. He half figured at the rate things were going he and Ariadne would end up eloping and living in a cave somewhere. Maybe Australia, he though. They had plenty of deserted lands they could get lost in.

X-_X-_X

Arthur was sitting in silence, a rare commodity in his movers and shakers type lifestyle. He'd opened a bottle of red from Chateau Mouton Rothschild in preparation of the headache that was already splitting between his eyes.

Arthur had had plans, and then Arthur had had Ariadne thrust into his life. And then…Arthur made new plans. Then Arthur made plans for Ariadne.

Marriage wasn't supposed to be part of the plan, not this early at least.

Arthur didn't doubt that the head on his daughter's shoulders was filled with integrity and self-confidence, along with a great deal of independent spirit, but he didn't want her to take on something that she wasn't ready for.

Marriage always went hand-in-hand with children, and new cars, and mortgages, and whole laundry list of items that tended to root a person down whether they wanted to be tied down or not.

Arthur may have been twenty-two when his daughter arrived, but he chose the life that accompanied it. He bought that life. When he was given the chance to raise his daughter he had already been making decisions and choices that others his age had never dreamed of. Ariadne was different; not worse, just different.

Arthur tilted his head back and closed his eyes, trying to tell himself that since he couldn't see the stars because of the glare of the city that he was going to imagine them on the back of his eye lids. It was a fair dream, Arthur thought. First time he'd been with Eames it had been beneath the star shaped props that dotted the stage's backdrop. He'd loved stars a fair amount ever since.

It didn't work though, and Arthur let his eyes lazily rise the next moment. Peace wasn't a decent prospect for him, at least not right at that moment.

Arthur grunted in acute frustration and took a long sip of his wine. If he hadn't given up smoking when he was thirty he was certain he'd have already lit up by now.

The club door opened so fast and with such velocity that it bounced off the wall and sent a resounding crack through the apartment. Heavy footsteps began rushing around inside.

Arthur cocked his head towards the patio entrance and raised an eyebrow. Here it comes, he thought apathetically.

The steps made their way towards the sliding glass doors and then Arthur watched as Eames stormed out towards the pool, looking positively furious all the while.

Arthur noted that he was in a change of costume. That meant that the vaudeville act had gone well. No doubt Eames had had the audience in stitches laughing at his routine. Blush was strewn across his checks and a bright red gloss slapped across his lips. His costume was mid-west fashioned. Cowboy boots being the least of it. Eames had artfully twisted up his flannel shirt so that he looked like some sort of ranch hand hussy.

The audience must have loved it.

Eames eyes scanned every corner of the patio and when they landed on the half empty bottle of white and Ariadne's left over glass, lipstick adorned, he screwed his face up in disbelief. "You absolute, sodding arse!"

"Is that directed at me?" Arthur queried tiredly, "only, I thought my name was Arthur, so you can imagine that I'm unused to 'sodding arse'."

"Who is he?" Eames demanded, picking up Ariadne's glass and slamming it back down again "Or she, actually?"

"Just a minute," Arthur demanded, "hold up."

"Where is the slag?" demanded Eames, his chest puffing out, "I can't bloody well believe this nonsense. Where are they? You had best tell me right now, Arthur, so help me God I'm going to wrap my hands around their throat and—!"

"Oh my God," Arthur resisted the urge to drop his head helplessly into his hands. "Would you contain yourself for one second of your life? It's Araidne."

"Ariadne?" Eeames repeated, stopping short. His confusion dampened his previous rage and his back lost its iron, his shoulders slumping.

"She's sleeping in her room if you don't believe me," Arthur bit back mulishly.

Eames crossed his arms and gave Arthur a bit of a sheepish grimace. "Why didn't you tell me, love?" he asked.

"So I'm 'love' now and not 'sodding arse'?" Arthur muttered, and for the second time that night he tilted his glass up to drain it. "Surprise," he said humorlessly, loud enough for Eames to hear this time.

Eames just slumped against the glass frame of the door, furrowing his brow and thinking a moment before turning back inside. Before he disappeared completely he popped back around to stab a finger in Arthur's direction, "This isn't finished, darling."

"Of course not," Arthur watched his partner disappear back in their house to check on their daughter and couldn't resist the swell of ridiculous happiness that bubbled inside of him. Only Eames could so thoroughly frustrate him and make him happy all at the same time.

As far as Arthur was concerned, the night was a success despite the theatrics. He had all the family he had ever needed back under one roof for the night and that was smashing.

He left the tray of wines, glasses, and melted ice on the table. Nash could deal with it in the morning.

X-_X-_X

Eames only stopped on his way to Ariadne's room to scrub at his face and shove his costume boots hastily into his and Arthur's bedroom. She was in her bedroom, the bedroom that had always been hers. Two doors down from the master bedroom it was the farthest from the main living area.

Eames and Arthur had spent an entire day putting up coats of petal pink paint on her walls once. They had been dismayed when an eight year old Ariadne had walked in, wrinkled her nose (in an Arthur like fashion) and declared "I don't like pink, I'm not one of those girls." Little Ariadne had refused to sleep anywhere except the couch until Arthur and he had taken their next free day and covered the pink with lavender.

The walls were still the same lavender. Eames applied just enough upward pressure to the door knob when he toed it open so that the hinges didn't squeak. The room lights were switched off but the city that surrounded them supplied the room with just enough light for Eames to make out that Ariadne was fast asleep in a cocoon of sheets.

He shifted his body sideways and inside. Eames had loved this little girl since he first met her. When he'd first laid eyes on her she'd been nothing more than a wrinkled, shrieking bundle in a terrified Arthur's arms. Eames had thought she'd been the most beautiful thing there could be.

Eames stepped further into the room, the plush carpeting swallowing his footsteps. She'd inherited Eames' own penchant for leaving clothing lying where it landed, so he scooped down and bundled up the laundry strewn across the floor. He moved silently about the room, putting her backpack on a chair, and hooking her coat onto a bedpost.

The smile that Eames let spread across his face was genuine. The kind of responsibility a person had to acquire when raising a child had alarmed Eames at first, but now he only felt the usual happiness that she brought out in him.

Ariadne had always been the piece of Arthur that Eames had never had to fight for. Her affections had always come freely.

Eames bent at the waist and dropped a kiss on her forehead. Ariadne shifted in her sleep, her hand moving to curl over her stomach the same way her father's did. Eames backed out of the room as softly as he came in. He gripped the laundry tighter and shuffled down the hall to pop it into the machine.

His little girl was home.

X-_X-_X

Arthur was reading the arts and leisure section of the New York Times when he felt eyes on him.

"Staring is a form of harassment," Arthur said dryly.

Eames shifted in the doorway but didn't say anything in reply. His hair was still damp and Arthur could smell the strawberry body-wash all the way where he was reclined on the bed. Eames didn't look tense, Arthur thought, he was bare-chested and in loose gym pants.

Arthur stared right back at his partner for another minute before he dropped his gaze back to the paper. When Eames wanted to speak up he would, of that Arthur was confident. Eames was actually the most silent person Arthur knew. His stage act was loud and dramatic, and so was Eames when he decided to bring the act home with him. But beyond that, Eames was really just a soft and contemplative presence at his side.

Eames may have looked at ease in the doorway, but he was anything except. He couldn't stop one hand from nervously running a thumb over the grooves in the door casing, and he'd obsessively went over the conversation he was nervous about having while in the bathroom, telling his reflection that this couldn't end well.

"Okay, I'll bite," Arthur closed the paper, dropping it besides the bed and setting his reading glasses down on the nightstand. He crossed his hands in his lap and relaxed against the headboard. "Well? You're actually starting to worry me now."

Denying that anything was wrong was on the tip of Eames' tongue, but he contained the impulse. He'd been working himself up over this ever since the source of his problems had emerged when he was going through their winter clothes in the spare closet looking for an old shirt. He hadn't found the shirt, but he had certainly happened across something far more surprising.

Eames swallowed and honest to God meant to say what was really bothering him but at the last second what popped out of his mouth was, "Why didn't you tell me Ariadne was coming?"

Arthur rolled his eyes and crossed his arms "Ariadne asked if she and I could have some alone time when she came home. She wanted to talk about something."

Eames nodded and swallowed again. Of course the whole night's event with Ariadne was adding to his stress as well. He leaned off the doorway, walking through and shutting their door while trying not to think about why Ariadne wouldn't have wanted him around when she got home.

Maybe she was just as tired of him as he was worried that Arthur might be.

"You're honestly cut up about something," Arthur said. He leaned forward on the bed, crooking a knee to lean towards where Eames was standing. His voice went from soft to concerned. "Eames, what's wrong?"

Eames avoided his partner's concerned gaze; he couldn't help it. He had never been able to stall the truth or pull the wool over on Arthur when he was forced to look the other man in the eye. It had always been too hard. Too be fair, Arthur usually had the same problem.

Arthur's look turned probing "Babe," he said, rising onto his knees and reaching off the bed to steady his hands on Eames' shoulders. He forced Eames to meet his eyes "What's wrong?"

The soft worry and anxiousness that automatically filtered into Arthur's tone drove Eames mad. It was Arthur's reaction more than anything else that stowed what he really wanted to talk about. He didn't want to argue anymore that night with Arthur. So, he breathed in a shaky breath and lied.

"Nothing," he said, just as softly. He reached up and ran a thumb under Arthur's ear, tracing a path all the way to the lips that he'd been able to kiss every day for over twenty years. "I guess tonight was just more dramatic than I was prepared for, love. And there really was a huge crowd tonight to boot."

Arthur was running nervous circled against Eames' neck with his thumbs. "Are you sure?" he asked.

Eames fixed a crooked grin on his face and closed the distance between them to tug Arthur into a loose embrace "Absolutely."

They were both silent for a moment, and neither of them were commenting on the way they were holding one another. Though, it was apparent to both men that they were both worried about something; though definitely not the same things. Arthur let his head rest on the other man's shoulder and tried to pretend he wasn't as worried over what was bothering Eames as he was.

Arthur tried to speak, "Hey I have to tell you what Ariadne came to talk about."

"I think," Eames said, moving back just enough so that he could look Arthur in the face "That I don't want to talk or think about anything but you just yet."

Arthur would ordinarily push the button on Eames' statement, not letting the man get away with something as selfish as that. But, tonight Arthur felt like a strange sense of fragility was hanging around them.

So Arthur let it go. Arthur let it go and he kissed Eames instead. He kissed his partner of over two decades, the man that had raised his daughter with him, the man that had helped make his dream of the club a reality, and the man that Arthur had been so stupidly in love with his whole life.

Arthur smiled goofily when they parted "Sometimes I wish I could breathe you," he confessed, knowing Eames would understand exactly what he meant by the uncharacteristically sappy statement.

Eames did. He wrapped his arms tight around Arthur and then forced the man to lean back until he was off balance enough to tumble them down onto their bed. "Sometimes I think you are what I breathe," Eames said in reply, he grinned a little and pushed upwards so that he was hovering above Arthur "Sometimes I don't think oxygen exists when I'm with you."

Arthur laughed softly, as awkward with the emotional confession as he normally was, even after all these years. Eames leaned over and kissed him.

On instinct, or years born of similar action, Arthur automatically reached up to grip Eames' hips, holding them loosely. When Eames let out a pleased noise at this and deepened the kiss Arthur felt arousal begin to flutter through his veins.

"You know, we have a daughter in the other room," Arthur warned. His actions belied his words though because he was already tugging Eames down so that his weight rested on Arthur and they were pressed together.

"I can be quiet if you can," Eames whispered with a grin. Arthur chuckled.

"We'll see."

Arthur ran a hand teasingly down to the drawstring of Eames' sweatpants, tugging at the strings but making no move to reach down further. Eames made a frustrated noise and Arthur leaned into Eames' neck to hide his smile. Though, Eames felt it anyway.

"I'm not an energetic young man," Eames warned playfully, "My poor old body might not be able to take this teasing of yours."

Arthur rolled his eyes and hooked a knee around Eames' waist. "You're forty six," he said "That's hardly decrepit. Although, if you're feeling too tired then by all means, let's just go to sleep."

"If I'm too tired to do all the hard work than that just means you'll have to share the labor, hm?" before Arthur could retort Eames rolled them across the bed, stopping when he was flat on his back, Arthur straddling his hips.

Arthur wrinkled his nose, "Lazy."

"Come now, you know you love being in charge, dear."

This time Arthur grinned, and he very slowly, bit by bit, leaned forward until he was close enough to ghost his lips over Eames', "Oh, I know I do."

Arthur righted himself and tugged his shirt off. After tossing it to the side of the bed he leaned back on his heels so that he could yank at Eames' sweat pants, and a few minutes later they were both taking in the sight of each other.

"Now remember," Arthur said, trying to keep a straight face, "You promised you'd be quiet."

Eames watched Arthur open the bedside drawer and extract the necessary supplies "Actually," he said mildly, "I said I could be quiet if you could."

Arthur forewent a reply and instead began attaching his mouth to every pulse point on Eames' body he could find. By the time he had reached the tender flesh of the inner thigh Eames was panting in earnest.

Eames was touch conducive in the same way that Arthur was especially aroused by sound, an observation that Arthur had had years to contribute findings to. So all the while Arthur was trailing his mouth against Eames' flesh he was running his hands in soothing, tickle-like caresses all the way from Eames' chest to his stomach and down to grip at his hips.

When Eames leaned forward to wrap a hand around the sweat dampened nape of Arthur's neck, Arthur looked up, somewhat surprised.

"I do like foreplay, pet," the other man said, "We know this as we've spent entire days in bed concerning the subject, but right now I would prefer to just have you."

And, well, it wasn't like Arthur was going to deny him.

Arthur fumbled with opening the small foil packet, his arousal was making his hands shake. But he managed to tear it open at about the same time as Eames managed to untwist the cap on the bottle of lube. They both paused, and then in a resurgence of movement they were caught in a tangle of Arthur trying to get the condom on Eames, Eames trying to get the blasted lube tube to cooperate, and the both of them trying to kiss hungrily at one another and get in position at the same time.

Eventually things came together and Eames was releasing a low hiss as Arthur all too willingly took Eames' fingers, carelessly moving his hips to encourage Eames to stretch him faster.

"Just-just do it already," Arthur said impatiently, "Fuck."

"You're the one calling the shots, love," Eames managed, though the end of his sentence turned into half a garbled moan as Arthur muttered "Damn straight," and wrapped one hand around the base of Eames' cock and the other he used to balance himself as he lowered himself voraciously onto Eames.

Eames almost chuckled aloud when euphoria took over and coherent thought bowed out completely. Twenty years in the same man's bed and the sensations were still breathtaking. They may not be as exuberant as they were when in their early twenties, but the pleasure had only increased over the years.

"Perfect," Arthur murmured, head tilted back. He didn't even seem aware of the word escaping him.

Eames figured that in all fairness he had lied earlier when he told Arthur to do all the heavy lifting because it was his own hands that were reaching out to grip at his lover and it was himself that was thrusting up to set their rhythm. It was he himself who groaned into an upright position so that their bodies could wrap around one another as they surged against each other over and over again.

Arthur bit down on the soft flesh below Eames' ear, his mutter of "Yes, yes" disappearing into the Brit's flesh.

More minutes passed and soon the thrusting became less rhythmic and more erratic, Arthur's pre-come smearing between them.

"Love you so much, darling," Eames choked, and he was sure that his hands were leaving bruises on Arthur. He was gripping him hard enough that it seemed he was afraid the other man would disappear.

"You too," Arthur said, his voice wrecked and sounding guttural, "always."

It was a tribute to what those words did to him that within moment Eames was stilling in an almost ironic way, and falling off the proverbial cliff and into his orgasm. Arthur watched the sight with rapturous selfishness, feeling pleasure bead inside him at the show his partner made. A few uncoordinated movements later and Arthur too was panting with release.

They remained like that for a few moments longer. Eventually, though, Arthur forced Eames onto his back, rolling away just far enough to untangle them. He came back though, making sure they were pressed tight against one another. An ocean of space surrounded them on either side, but it was more than intimacy that made it so there was no separation between them.

They didn't say much. Eames preferred to let moments like these be concluded with an exchange of lazy kisses, and normally Arthur couldn't trust the lack of properly firing synapsis to stop him from speaking and saying something that could potentially he harmful to his dignity. So generally, moments of afterglow like these were emotional rather than vocal.

But, Arthur was still mulling over a thought. Even Eames' particular brand of distraction wasn't enough to shake it from him mind. Before he could change his mind and rethink his decision he had opened his mouth.

"Eames, I'll be here to listen whenever you want to talk about what was really bothering you."

Eames stilled beside him but didn't say anything; he didn't roll away from Arthur either which Arthur counted as a win. Still, it felt like the night's earlier fragility had returned. Before Arthur could do much else about it, though, he had fallen asleep, sweaty and tired and startlingly content.

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