The Birdcage

Chapter Three

Enjoy

X-_X-_X

Robert could count all the times in his life where he'd felt this uncomfortable. There were few. In truth, there were really only one or two moments that compared with currently being in the car, seated between his parents and their version of the Cold War.

Robert didn't even think that the time he had cried in class after being written up by Mrs. Stevenson was as uncomfortable as this. To make matters worse, his father had shoved a chocolate bar at him like Robert was still five years old and could be appeased by sweets. Robert didn't remind his father that he hadn't liked or eaten chocolate in almost a decade.

Under Maurice's watchful eye Robert had unwrapped the chocolate bar and taken mouse sized bites while trying not to let on his disgust. He felt as though he were in primary school again. Over Robert's lap, both his parents were leaned forward and having a heated argument.

"Why don't we just charter a plane?" Margot was saying.

"No," Maurice said, "We can't get out of the car! The second we get out of the car we'll be spotted."

Yes, Robert mused, they can't get out of the car because Armageddon, aliens, or cheap tabloid paparazzi might be waiting. Lions, and tigers, and bears oh my!

Robert watched his mother's lips thin until they were barely present any longer, and when she took an exaggerated gulp of her coffee he figured it was to distract herself from cussing his father out. His mother's greatest battle was between her true nature and the image of a perfect politician's wife.

In the front seat the Fischer's driver had let his attention wander to the light grey sedan that had been following them since they began. The waded up bills in his pocket felt heavy.

In the grey sedan Tadashi, long time cameraman for the tabloid journalist Mort Miller, grimaced down at his gas station coffee. Mort, sitting beside him, grunted out "Tastes like piss," as if he could read Tadashi's mind.

"I'm glad you have experience knowing what piss tastes like, Mort," Tadashi retorted dryly.

Back in the black town car Robert looked first at his mother, then over to his father and resolutely looked down at his hands. Sometimes it was hard to believe life was real. He sighed.

X-_X-_X

It may have been a bit of a drive from the apartment, but a morning spent at Coney Island was what the doctor ordered, at least in Eames' opinion. A few too many people maybe, but he couldn't really complain.

Looking over at Arthur, sun block smeared into the man's vampire-like skin, Eames couldn't help a brief bubble of near hysterical pleasure. He couldn't help it if he loved his life. He shifted and relaxed further down into his collapsible lounge chair, letting his sunglasses slip down his nose.

In an attempt to stave off accidentally reciting poetry aloud Eames decided to say, "Ah, how I do so love the sun."

"It's nice," Arthur allowed.

Eames' eyes shifted sideways "Don't even try being coy, darling, you'd be sprawled out naked on this beach if there were less people and it were on the pleasant side of legal, and we both know it."

Arthur's cheeks reddened. "If you're having exhibitionism fantasies again maybe we can work it into the show."

"Darling! I believe that was innuendo. I'm so proud."

"Wasn't quite innuendo," Arthur retorted dryly. He fanned himself a bit with a magazine. After a moment he shrugged his shoulders back and rested his head on the back of the chair. He grinned wickedly, "But can you imagine an opening night like that? The reviews the club would get…"

Eames laughed aloud and smiled back at his partner. He reached over to hook a hand over Arthur's wrist, running a thumb over the man's pulse point. "I'm afraid the resulting lawsuit and possible imprisonment wouldn't suit you, love."

"Guess we'll have to dash it then," Arthur sighed regretfully. He tossed a bright smile at Eames, eyes lit up by more than sunlight.

Eames leaned over and stole a kiss, and then another. "I do love it when you get lewd."

They continued to tease and joke for another couple minutes, Arthur nearly forgetting what that day's outing was all about. For a few minutes it had really just been about him and his partner enjoying one another's company. Now Arthur realized he had to get working on the day's plan.

"You know," Arthur began, keeping his voice level and placating "You could use some more sun. Maybe take a quick vacation; you look tired."

Eames had stopped smiling half way through the sentence. By the end of Arthur's statement he had taken his aviators off.

"What the bloody hell does that mean?"

"Nothing," Arthur assured him, steadfastly not flinching. Arthur could tell this wasn't going to end the way he had planned.

When Eames opened his mouth again, his brows furrowing while he tried to parse the meaning behind Arthur's statement, Arthur rocketed up and out of his rented beach chair, reaching down to dig into their tote bag for his wallet. "Mango smoothie?" He suggested.

X-_X-_X

Back at the apartment the club's day crew was involved in a working frenzy worse than holiday dress rehearsals. Ladjuana and Diana had managed to entangle themselves in wall hangings and Sasha and Sabrina Star were trying to figure out the logistics of getting the Poseidon statue onto a dolly and out onto the lanai'i.

"Careful," Nash called out half-heartedly. Who put him in charge of these types of things anyway? He shrugged when the Francis Bacon prints came off the walls with less than careful handling. He was more concerned with what was going on in the region of his pant leg.

Ariadne came in from the kitchen just in time to get distracted by her parents' collection of signed show bills being tossed into a box. She remembered her reason for coming into the room and held up the magazines she had brought with her. "Alright, who put the playboys in the bathroom?"

"What?" Sabrina Star said from where she was hanging fabric on the wall, "It's what they read."

"Look," Ariadne said, shaking her head. She wanted to point out that it's not like her parents had playgirl in the bathroom beforehand, so what was the point of the playboy? "Don't add. Just subtract. This place has to be perfect and we don't have that much time."

Nash hadn't even paid attention to the exchange. "Yo, Yusuf, careful. I want that nice Armani break in the front, none of that off the rack type look, alright?"

Yusuf had hemming needles in his lips so he couldn't respond but he glared upwards and gave a sharp pull to the cuff of Nash's pant legs.

Nash's response was to whine back with: "Yeah but don't just do it down there, I have high waters up here, man."

Yusuf wondered why he volunteered at all. He'd gone to school for Biochemistry and graduated suma cume laude. This would not be in his advisor's ten year plan. This is what happens when you meet Eames, Yusuf concluded.

"What about the suspenders?" Nash asked the next minute, "Do you think they're supposed to line up with the nipples or what?"

Yusuf sighed, dumping the hemming needles on the floor, and walked away to see if Sabrina needed help. "Go back to Queens—excuse me, I mean Guatemala."

X-_X-_X

"But you must have meant something," Eames insisted, not necessarily calm.

"You know I didn't," Arthur pressed back, striding a little quicker to keep up with Eames. Their time out ended and when the subject had been brought up again as they were getting out of their taxi at a cross street Eames' response had been terse. Arthur figured that, in retrospect, he hadn't gone about the conversation in the best possible way.

"You said I looked tired," Eames said flatly. He waved his hand at Arthur "Tired means old; you mean I look old. You looked rested means you've had too much sodding collagen."

"You don't look old," Arthur said quickly, "In fact you look wonderful, too wonderful to be wasted indoors. Let's go window shopping, or for a walk."

Arthur wasn't sure he was expanding the best of his intellect to their thread of conversation. But they were too close to the apartment and Arthur was beginning to panic. They couldn't go in and find the club staff stripping the place. Arthur didn't know how to make Eames and the impending disaster avoid one another.

"I'd rather go home, love," Eames said shortly, running a hand across his forehead.

"Don't you always say that I have a vendetta against Vitamin D?" Arthur raised an eyebrow and tugged on Eames' elbow, "Come on, we can go wherever you want to go."

"Wherever I want?" Eames asked, slowing. Arthur's apparently genuine facial expression seemed to win Eames over a bit. And Eames really did enjoy a day out. "Well…I'll have to grab a jacket."

"We'll buy you one," Arthur blurted.

"I'll just grab my windbreaker from upstairs."

"It's two years old. We'll get a new one."

"We're fifty feet from the club."

"But-!"

"Arthur! For Christ's sake!" Eames was looking at Arthur like the other man had tumbled off his rocker. "Why can't we go home?"

Arthur's mouth worked furiously but nothing came out. It used to be a good thing that Arthur normally had to try so hard to lie to Eames, now having the talent would have come in handy. Eames watched Arthur for a moment, trying to read him, before yanking the silk scarf at his neck off and walking across the street.

"Eames!" Arthur shouted. Arthur had absolutely nothing to back himself up. No plan.

"What?" Eames demanded, doubling back "What is the bloody problem, Arthur?"

Arthur hummed but didn't say anything. When Eames was close enough Arthur reached out and tugged the other man to him with only half a scattered thought. The kiss that Arthur forced Eames into was a good deal filthier than was normally permissible in public.

"Darling," the rest of Eames' protest was lost in the insistent press of Arthur's mouth and something very creative that Arthur was doing underneath Eames' linen shirt.

"I want you, I mean, that, uh, like I need you. Now." In for a penny, in for a pound. Arthur didn't have any other plan, so he might as well go with it. Though if Arthur got arrested he was making sure that Ariadne bailed him out with whatever money she might have set aside for this damn wedding.

"Hm, lucky for us we have a rather cozy flat just 'round the corner," Eames nuzzled along Arthur's jaw, taking half a step back so that they weren't quite as indecent a public sight as they had been a moment though. Arthur was glad that Eames hadn't questioned his abrupt change of attitude. If Arthur could he'd be teasing Eames about thinking with his prick and not his head.

"So far away," Arthur hummed back in response, leaning forward and trying to be as appealing as possible, "What about that service alley behind the Pewterschmidt's?"

Eames' eyebrows went into his hairline and he stepped back with a laugh. "Pet, we haven't shagged in an alley since Ari was in diapers."

Arthur cursed, and he couldn't stop the blush that ran up his neck either. The role of the wanton hussy was not one he'd ever been good at playing.

He mustn't have scared Eames off though because the other man had turned back towards the road and was tugging insistently at Arthur's shirt cuff. "This is why we are cunning business owners that can afford a lovely, plush, king size bed. Good for a right proper shagging."

Arthur caught Eames' hand and still tried to pull him back in the other direction, away from the apartment.

"Besides," Eames was saying, "I don't know if your poor, middle-aged back could take the alley wall, Arthur."

"Whose poor middle-aged back?" Arthur asked, momentarily derailed. When Eames dodged around a taxi to cross the street Arthur was forced to follow. "You're four years older than me."

"Ah, but you're such a slight little thing."

"Slight little thing?" Arthur spluttered and glared at Eames' back, still being dragged along the side-walk towards their apartment and club. "We're the same height, and you're not that much bigger than me. I think you're delusional."

Eames snorted but just grinned over his shoulder at Arthur, waggling his brows.

When they reached the outside stair to head up to the apartment Arthur decided to give one last attempt. He crowded Eames up against the outer gate door and planted what had to be at least their seventh or eighth best kiss ever on him. When they parted Eames cleared his throat a couple of times.

"Well, love, I can't say that the sun doesn't agree with you."

Then Eames turned with a come hither look and began jogging up the stairs.

Arthur wanted to lean over and bash his head against the wall a couple times. Best laid plans and all that.

X-_X-_X

"What is that?" Ariadne demanded, incredulous.

Ladjuana and Seth were carrying the mounted head of a moose and trying to leverage it up the wall.

"I got it from the antique store across the street," Ladjuana said, she motioned up towards the moose and added "You know, like that Sarah Palin chick."

"Don't add," Ariadne stressed as succinctly as possible. Before she could go further into direction voices could be heard arguing loudly on the landing. Her eyes went wide with panic and Ariadne nearly dropped the box she was carrying.

At once all of the club workers sprang into action and began running towards the club door. When Ladjuana and Seth began to look like they were contemplating how best to get the moose out the door to the club Ariadne cut them off, "Put the moose on the lanai'i….put the moose on the lanai'i!"

Ariadne began moving as swiftly as she could towards the living room, just as the last of the club workers disappeared out the door.

Out on the landing Arthur was doing his damnedest to unhook Eames' Gucci couture belt buckle.

"You're being ridiculous," Eames was panting in between short bursts of hysterical chuckling, "I haven't the foggiest what's gotten into you—!"

"Let's just—wait a minute," Arthur was arguing, but Eames' hand was already on the door and he was tugging Arthur along behind him and into their apartment as quickly as possible. The door opened and…

Eames shouted bloody murder in surprise. Cursed up the proverbial storm.

Arthur let his shoulders slump and he swore under his breath indelicately.

"We've been robbed," Eames was saying, a hand hovering over his mouth in shock, "They've nicked bloody everything!"

Ariadne's ears were still ringing from Eames' shrill stream of profanity but she walked forward and began trying to explain as soothingly as possible. "Eamsie, no, I've just taken a few things out. We'll have it all back in place by the time you get back."

Arthur, who had been previously alternating between blind panic and amazement at how bare their apartment was, widened his eyes and tried to communicate silently with Ariadne.

"Back?" Eames said slowly and then somewhat nonplussed he said, "Where'm I off to?"

Finally, Ariadne looked over at Arthur and said, "You didn't tell him?"

Arthur crossed his arms and tried not to look as wretched as he was beginning to feel. Moment of truth, he decided.

"Tell me what?" Eames demanded, turning to Arthur with a brow raised and an arm on his hip.

"Ariadne's fiancé is coming tonight," Arthur began slowly, not making eye contact "With his gun-loving, free market capitalist, so called family values—,"

"Dad."

"—Parents. And we thought," when Arthur finally made eye contact Eames' mouth was still hanging open with shock, but the look in his eyes suggested that he was beginning to realize that they'd been trying to pull something over on him, "that it'd be better—that it would just be easier for things to go well—if you weren't here."

Eames furrowed his brows, his hands dropping to his sides, and he turned to look at Ariadne for confirmation. She tried to smile and failed. "I see," Eames said shortly.

"It's just for tonight…"

"I understand," Eames pressed on flippantly, "It's just while people are here. It's alright my darling, it's nothing. It's painful, but it's not likely important, I'm leaving."

Arthur's mouth went dry and he tried to reach for Eames' elbow to tell the man that, no it wasn't that they wanted him to leave. Arthur realized with certain clarity that he and Eames hadn't actually been apart for more than a day or so since they'd gotten together. Decades they'd been together but now the idea of Eames leaving for the night, and Arthur sleeping alone in their bed, was absolutely crushing.

Eames jerked harshly away from Arthur. Arthur flinched back staying stock still. Eames was livid. Arthur could see he was trying to fit into the role of stage dramatics that he usually took to mask anger, but it wasn't sticking.

"The sodding freak is leaving," Eames said. "You're safe."

Eames turned and sauntered back out onto the landing and down the stairs. His head held as high as it could go.

"That went well," Arthur said blithely. Then Arthur reached down and picked up Eames' dropped hat and hauled ass down the stairs.

X-_X-_X

Eames honest to Christ felt like he was fifteen and had just been caught palming Harvey Wellington's cock behind the hedges again. His father had made him feel worthless. His mother had poured herself a drink.

Eames hadn't shared a word with his parents in almost twenty two years.

He passed tourists in daywear, students scrounging for caffeine, and locals who smiled at him, but Eames felt, for the first time ever, like running away from the place he always thought fondly of as home and never coming back.

Then he heard Arthur shout "Eames!" behind him. Eames let out a huff of air and felt tears well. Feeling ridiculous he blinked his eyes and thought about how his father would box his ears for crying; about how he used to.

"Will you listen?" Arthur demanded, catching up to him as Eames turned the corner.

"I don't particularly care for you right now darling," Eames replied tersely, "This isn't quite like the time you dropped the kitchen china down the stairs, it's a bit worse really."

"I know," Arthur through a hand out to grab at Eames' arm, "I'm sorry, look, I really am, Eames. You know me for fuck's sake. You can stay."

Eames shook Arthur off and ducked around a crowd of people. He could stay? Eames wanted to scoff. Was that what Arthur thought the problem was? Really?

"I don't want to stay where I'm not wanted," Eames sniffed instead, his character from stage settling over him like a shield. Let Arthur think what he likes. "My heart has been run over by a lorry filled with your disrespect and condescension!"

Arthur really missed a step at that, and jogged a little quicker to keep up with Eames, mouthing 'Lorry?' behind his back.

"I can just be kicked out of the flat that I made a home out of, especially considering you can't tell your suede from your velvet, Arthur, at any time. I have no legal rights!"

"I do too know suede from velvet," Arthur retorted before saying, "and what the hell do you mean legal rights? We put your name on the club years ago!"

"I used to think your dense moments were adorable," bemoaned Eames, raising a hand to clutch at his imaginary pearls, "and now you're nothing but a cutting, cruel, temperamental, slave-driving, unequal—,"

"I'm dying to hear the point of this one," Arthur said over Eames, loudly. He glanced around them nervously, just as Eames intended him to.

Eames is a man of many skills, however, and he'd long proved that he could go shout for shout with Arthur. Not to mention uncouth behavior in public tended to get Arthur anxious. "I can't take this ugliness!" Eames declared to the street at large. A dog walker jumped in surprise and tripped herself over her leashes, "Here, feel my pulse!"

Arthur put his hand to Eames' wrist accordingly. His pulse was fantastic for a middle-aged man prone to melodrama. However Arthur eyed the people eyeing them and decided to play along for now.

"Here," Arthur said, grabbing Eames around the waist and directing the man across the street towards a cafe they frequented, "Let's get you some water."

Eames was groaning about migraines and heart palpitations by the time they made it to the doors.

X-_X-_X

Arthur had immediately steered them towards the outdoor seating where they normally took their repas. He didn't bother sparing the waiter or the only other customer outside a glance. He called sharply for water and forced Eames to sit in chair closest to them.

"It's a horrible, despicable day," Eames was declaring shrilly. He narrowly avoided clipping Arthur's face when he waved an arm around imperiously.

"No it's not," Arthur insisted, "Just breathe."

Arthur sat quickly and when the waiter returned with ice water Arthur realized it was a waiter they'd had frequently, said waiter also tended to be fond of wearing scarlet lycra when he came to Arthur's club. "Hello Rodrigo, the usual."

Once the waiter had been dismissed Arthur immediately turned back to Eames and began to get genuinely worried. In the past, during similar moments of family tension, Eames had managed to work himself up into similar fits before. During one such alarming occasion Arthur had been forced to watch as Eames got so worked up that he crumpled to the floor in a dead faint. It had been nerve-racking say the least. So, while he was pretty sure Eames was using melodrama as his weapon of choice Arthur was going to keep an eye on him anyway.

Noting the sweat on Eames's brow Arthur dipped the cloth napkin lightly into the ice water and applied it to other man's forehead. For once Eames quieted, and was hunched over with his eyes downcast. Arthur was somewhat stunned to realize that this occasion may not be like other occasions, and that this time all the hysterics and histrionics might be somewhat genuine in nature.

"There you go," Arthur murmured. He thumbed tender circles into nape of Eames' neck.

"Ah, thank you darling, that's much better," Eames adjusted a piece of the costume jewelry hanging around his neck and put a hand on Arthur's knee, smiling, genuinely if not a bit sadly, at him. He reached toward his glass of water, but besides that he seemed content to remain quiet.

Arthur was intensely struck with the realization that this moment was a moment of importance. This was the moment where he had to prove his worth as a partner, and it was Eames that needed him now. Arthur wouldn't put a crack in a twenty year relationship because he was afraid to step his game up.

"This is not because of you," Arthur said firmly.

"That's a first coming out of your mouth," Eames breathed out what may have been a chuckle, his gaze remained firmly elsewhere.

"You don't need to joke," Arthur said; he put his own hand atop Eames' "I'm serious. Ariadne is crazy about you."

"Sometimes I wonder about that, if she would have been happier to be raised by someone she could call 'mum'."

"Technically she could still call you mum," Arthur grinned slightly and tipped his head towards Eames, trying to tease a smile out of him.

"Technically," Eames did seem to be calming, and Arthur relaxed back into his own chair, although the tension had by no means passed them by.

After a moment Eames said, "Perhaps it is a bit much to, er, introduce me as her mother as it were, on their first visit with us."

Eames was being perfectly reasonable about their situation, it made Arthur have to fight the uncontrollable urge to begin chucking items everywhere or overturn their table.

In truth, Arthur found it rather heartbreaking. If there positions were reversed Arthur would be railing against anyone within earshot. He wouldn't be able to manage Eames' grace.

Eames wasn't finished though. "You could tell them I was relative who dropped in," Eames supplied, "Ariadne's uncle? Uncle Eames."

Eames' tone was hopeful but Arthur still couldn't see that being a solution. "Oh what's the use? You'd still be Ariadne's gay uncle Eames."

"Please. I could play it straight any day, love."

Arthur snorted into his water. "Unlikely," he said through a mouth full of ice "Look at the way you're holding your glass."

Pinky up, at a right angle.

"Look at your posture," Arthur went on, "Not to mention that I've never seen you keep your hands to yourself ever. Not even in front of my mother at Uncle Albie's funeral."

"You looked so adorable in your kippah though. It'd be like self-harm to resist."

"Still. We're not going to be able to convince these people that you're a straight man. Especially seeing as you've apparently gone heavy on the kohl today."

"Well what about you then?" Eames sniffed and slumped to the side, "You're obviously not a bloody cultural attaché or whatever blasted thing they have you parading as. You own show tune trivia and participate in drag show national conferences."

"These people don't care if you know show tunes trivia, Eames. They're ulta-conservative right wing idiots. They just care if you're queer."

There was a pause in debate when Rodrigo returned and placed their sandwiches in front of them. Eames smiled his thanks at Rodrigo and Arthur took a moment to peer sideways at Eames and study the other man. He looked rather defeated. Eames wasn't bothering to keep the slouch out of his shoulders and was fidgeting with his rings anxiously.

Arthur opened his mouth to make the suggestion that Eames could just stay downstairs and close the club that night, that way he'd avoid the dinner and not have to be sent away either, when the words unexpectedly caught in his throat. He literally chocked and ended up reaching for his water.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine," Arthur responded, tears in his eyes. "But, listen, fuck these wankers, alright?"

Eames grinned and Arthur couldn't help but give into the urge to smirk back. Eames' pleasure at Arthur adopting British-isms was something that Arthur didn't mind exploiting. If Arthur needed the big guns he would pull out the accent to go with it.

"I'm serious," Arthur lay his hand on Eames' arm "Of course you can be 'Uncle Eames'. You're a wonderful actor, and I'm a great director. Together we can do almost anything. We've done the goddamn HMS Pinafore, and you remember what a nightmare that was."

"Do you mean that?" Eames questioned, playing with the prongs of his fork and sounding alarmingly unsure.

"Obviously. Out of the pair of us who's the one prone to exaggeration?"

"Brilliant," Eames said, he leaned back in his chair and smiled genuinely, "You and me against the world, eh? Still think we can pull something off like this in our old age now?"

"Prime age," Arthur corrected, "We still have five hours. That's more than enough time."

Eames leaned forward and picked up his sandwich. Underneath the table he knocked a foot against Arthur's chair leg and then wrapped his ankle around the other man's.

"You'll have to pretend to be Ariadne's mother's brother," Arthur said, "We don't look anything alike and that way you won't have to do the American thing on top of the straight thing."

"Ta, for the idea, Arthur," Eames replied dryly, "But that was a bit obvious. I don't fancy adding incestuous overtones to this night if we don't have to. Would complicate things a bit I'd imagine."

Arthur rolled his eyes. He reached over and swatted at Eames' hand, making the other man exclaim and drop his sandwich. "First things first: keep that damn pinky down."

Arthur fiddled with his watch as he looked Eames over. "And your posture," Arthur reached for Eames' waist and jerked his hips sideways, so that the man was seated with his feet flat beside one another "Try not to appear as though you have weapons below your belt. Flat footed and unremarkable, please, if there isn't anything for them to notice then there isn't anything for them to remember."

Eames batted Arthur's hands away from him, "No need for the advice or the hip re-alignment, cheers."

Two tables ahead of them an elderly woman turned in her seat and peered over at them. Her thick glasses managed to make her look bug-like. She sniffed and turned back around in her seat, thoroughly disapproving of the ruckus they were making.

Arthur ignored her and tried to picture what the night was going to be like "Okay," he said slowly, "This is a dinner party so let's think food."

Eames picked up the small jar of mustard and wiggled it to get Arthur's attention. Arthur nodded and motioned for Eames to spread it on his sandwich bread.

Eames picked up a teaspoon. Arthur glared and Eames pointedly re-laid the spoon and picked up the butter knife.

"Smear it," Arthur said heavily. "Men smear."

"Yeah, yeah," Eames managed to lean forward in an inelegant slouch and spread the mustard correctly but Arthur's eyes narrowed and he leaned forward to swat at Eames' hand again.

"Keep the goddamn pinky down!"

Eames responded by spearing his bread and sending his knife clattering noisily to the ground.

"You can't be so jumpy," Arthur complained, "You have to be as confident as you normally are. If you can manage confidence while in full make up and costume during a rendition of 'Teenie Weenie Bikini' on stage then you can do it when talking about free-trade to a capitalist."

"I shall think of this simply as a part then. An act."

"Exactly," Arthur agreed. Rodrigo came back over to fill their water and Arthur managed a couple careful bites before he opened his mouth thoughtfully. "Let's try walking."

Eames' eyebrows made a quick jaunt upwards to meet his hairline "What the hell's wrong with the way I walk?"

"You…glide," Arthur replied lamely. He wiggled a hand at Eames as if trying to demonstrate.

"I what?" Eames asked incredulously "I've not been the hand to hip sort in my life. And I've no idea what this (he wiggled an arm back at Arthur in perfect imitation of the other man's move) is."

"You walk like you're striding down the runway," Arthur retorted dryly.

"Do I now?"

"You're all hips and attitude; you swing from side to side…" Eames' gaze became accusing and Arthur quickly backtracked "Which is attractive. But, not straight."

Eames snorted. "Instruct me then, o' wise director of mine."

"Get up and walk," Arthur ordered, waving a hand towards the aisle between tables.

Eames stood and resolutely walked neatly down the aisle. Arthur sighed. The other man's hips were wiggling with every step he took. While Arthur could appreciate it, he believed that Senator Fischer might not.

The elderly woman's attention was diverted from her lunch and she squinted as Eames turned to walk back just as he passed her table. She turned back to her newspaper crossword and looked as if she were trying very hard to appear engrossed in it.

When Eames made it back to their table he took one look at Arthur's face and sighed "Too swishy then, love?"

"…Let me give you an image." Arthur said finally. "It's a cliché, I know, but it works. John Wayne."

"Oh, Christ," Eames put a hand over his lips and rolled his eyes. "Couldn't we start with someone…easier?"

"You're normally such a big fan," Arthur replied wryly.

Eames shrugged, "The man wore chaps, darling. Frequently."

"He has a very distinctive walk," Arthur laid a hand flat on the table, decisive. "He's a man's man. Try it. Just get off your horse and mosey on into town, or whatever."

Eames turned back towards the aisle, and then paused with an idea. He picked up his hat and flattened the brim so that it imitated a cowboy hat.

"Nice touch," Arthur complimented. Now was not the time for him to point out the British and hats cliché.

This time Eames walked the few feet down with much more confidence, but that was about the only improvement. It appeared to Arthur as if the man had combined the idea of a pirate limp with a Tyrannosaurus arm movement.

Not a very promising outcome.

Eames was having too much fun with his character. When he paused to turn and come back to the table he winked at the elderly woman, tipped his hat and drawled "Howdy, ma'am." While the accent may have been spot on the rest of the image was sorely lacking.

Arthur expected to be shown from the café any moment. He was forcing himself not to contemplate what the people on the other side of the café's glass windows were no doubt thinking.

When Eames came back to the table he needed only to look at Arthur's expression again to tell his thought. "No good?" he asked, practically crestfallen.

"Actually, it was perfect," Arthur said lightly. "I just never realized a universe existed where John Wayne walked like that."

X-_X-_X

Robert watched his mother recap her Valium bottle with a fair bit of envy. His father was driving now that the chauffeur was napping in the passenger seat. Maurice had a white knuckle grip on the steering wheel, and Robert was feeling fairly trepidatious about going to sleep himself. They had a fairly shocking run in with an eighteen wheeler a few hours back.

As if Robert's thoughts were foreshadowing, moments later Maurice took an abrupt right and cut across two lanes of traffic changing their destination to the Pittsburg on-ramp.

Several cars behind the Senator's vehicle Mort was contemplating the scientific attributes of potholes when he noticed the Fischer family car go veering off the through way. His jaw dropped with shock, several cracker crumbs falling onto his shirt. When Mort hurried to follow the Senator Tadashi jerked awake, grabbing the safety bar and trying to make sense of the sudden traffic change.

"This schmuck's a maniac," Mort exclaimed.

Tadashi looked disbelievingly from the road to Mort. "You're the schmuck. What kind of turn was that? Real smooth!"

"I was just following him!"

"You could have at least bothered with a turn signal! I'm not prepared to die for a part-time job, no offense."

Mort flicked Tadashi off and glared at the bumper of the Fischer's car. "I wonder what's in Greenwich Village anyway?"

"The Stonewall bar?" Tadashi ventured.

Mort snorted. "What conservative senator in his right mind would be headed to a gay bar?"

X-_X-_X

Eames straightened his back and stuck out his hand walking across the grass to clasp his hand with Arthur's "Arthur you old so-and-so…How 'bout those Giants!"

Obviously not the greeting Arthur had wanted. Eames watched Arthur role his eyes and put a hand to his cheek. The park had been a better choice for practice; however they weren't getting very far.

"Screaming queen?" Eames ventured. He rubbed his forehead. They'd been trying to hash out the logistics of a straight male greeting for the better part of an hour. Their experience can be demonstrated by the fact that it took just under ten minutes to agree that a handshake was the proper greeting at all.

"Straighten your arm," Arthur said, "and put your hand out sideways, not palm down. You're not Elizabeth or Kate; no one's going to kiss it."

When Eames had positioned his hand the way Arthur directed Arthur reached out and grabbed it, shaking vigorously. "Eames, you old so-and-so!"

"I just said that," Eames protested testily.

"Well now I'm saying it," Arthur said.

"Alright, alright," Eames said tiredly. Arthur put a comforting hand on Eames' hip; he knew the other man was trying hard. Eames jogged a couple feet back so that they could start again.

When Arthur had leaned back against the park tree and opened his newspaper, trying for the unassuming straight acquaintance look, Eames started forward again, this time extending his hand the way Arthur had said to.

"Eames you old son of a gun!" Arthur greeted Eames the way Arthur's father had normally greeted his buddies. It was the only experience Arthur really had to go on. "How do you feel about that call yesterday," Arthur began recalling the sports information he had just read in the paper "The Giant's fourth in three plays, on their thirty yard line with only thirty four seconds to go?"

Eames furrowed a brow and punched at Arthur companionably. "How do you think I bloody feel?" he asked, "Betrayed? Bewildered? Wrong response?"

Arthur looked back at Eames blankly "You know what, I don't even know. I haven't had to research sports to fit in since high school, and that was lacrosse."

Eames grunted, "Shall we take it from the top and hope for the best?"

"Yeah, we probably should."

"This is sort of fun," Eames grinned. Arthur knew exactly what he meant. They used to do the same thing in the park years ago, back when they had to get out of the studio to practice somewhere and before they had a whole nightclub at their disposal.

"Yeah it is, stud." Arthur puffed his chest out and tried for a deep southern drawl.

Eames laughed, and replied in kind. Though, predictably his accent was far more accurate than Arthur's. "Damn straight, amigo!"

"Damn straight!"

A few more moments of political incorrectness later, they pulled it back together and tried not to be so delighted with themselves. It didn't quite work though, because around the time Eames was going to launch into an anti-communist monolog they accidentally stumbled backwards into where a man was eating his lunch.

Eames grunted in surprise and jumped. "Oh, I'm so sorry, mate."

"Hey, take it easy," the guy replied, pushing away a little.

Arthur may have been having a little bit too much fun with their role play because it was him that was stepping forward saying "How about you take it easy, alright asshole?"

Eames eyes went wide and his brows flew up to his hairline. There was a reason they had never enjoyed role play in the bedroom. They both had a tendency to take it too far on occasion.

Though, Eames had to grin. Arthur lit up in righteous anger was amusing and a fair bit arousing.

"He bumped in to me," the man replied, looking unimpressed with Arthur.

"Tough shit."

"Look buddy, why are you being such a dick?"

"Why are you being such a toolbag?" Arthur snapped back.

Eames lost all humor when the man suddenly stood and he realized that the stranger stood about a foot taller than either of them. "Oops."

The sudden imminent threat to personal safety had its desired effect and Arthur snapped back to normal. His eyes went wide when he realized exactly what fight he had picked.

"Are you calling me a toolbag?" the guy asked calmly.

Arthur eyed the man's fists, which were about the size of grapefruits. "Actually," Arthur said, chuckling nervously "I was talking to the toolbag behind you."

X-_X-_X

Eames made a tutting noise and settled the cold compress on Arthur's head. "You see, the swelling's already lessening, darling."

Arthur rolled his eyes up to look at where Eames was leaning against the couch above him. Arthur still looked quite dazed, really. But, they weren't sitting in Mercy General's trauma center so that was good news all in all.

"You were magnificent," Eames winked and grinned, "Marvelous. Very masculine."

"I don't know whether to call you a smartass or a jackass," Arthur groused. He tried to glare but only succeeded in looking miserable.

Eames smothered a smirk and came around the couch to sit on the edge next to Arthur "At any rate that giant looked absolutely ridiculous banging your head against the tree. Looked as if he were trying to shake coconuts loose, really. He didn't even know how to box, I mean come on now."

Arthur knew when he was being made fun of. He huffed but didn't complain when Ariadne handed Eames a washcloth full of ice and Eames settled it on his head. One did not tempt one's nurse maid. Arthur believed that fervently.

Eames leaned forward and rested one of his hands on Arthur's chest, the other man's heartbeat a faint pattern beneath his hand. It hadn't been a bad day, Eames figured. It actually was fairly great. They hadn't been out and about in the city, just the two of them, in quite some time. It made Eames smile, slightly wistfully but sincerely.

"How about I fetch you a couple aspirin, hm?" Eames pressed a kiss to Arthur's cheek and stood, walking around Ariadne and out of the room.

Ariadne wasn't wincing in sympathy for her father. The man had taught her Taw Kwon Do as soon as she turned thirteen, so as far as she was concerned her father could have taken the guy if he'd really wanted to. She just rolled her eyes and looked away, grinning a bit. Unfortunately, though, her sight landed on the lanai.

"Uh, dad," she cleared her throat, "You are aware that Nash is cleaning the pool in a g-string, aren't you?"

"It's Thursday," Arthur shrugged as best he could in his position, "He always cleans the pool in a g-string on Thursdays. He has an entire treatise on how it improves his karmic balance or chi, or some shit."

"That part of his contract?"

"Trust me," Arthur dropped the washcloth bundle onto the floor. The ice was already beginning to melt into his hair, "If I could put him not wearing g-strings into a contract legally then I would."

"Think we could, oh I don't know, hire a straight maid for tonight?" Ariadne slid the door to the lanai shut; Nash was beginning to sing Moulin Rouge tracks.

"This is the west village." Arthur replied with emphasis, "Any person we could hire in the next couple hours would definitely be a person that the Fischers wouldn't want to meet."

Ariadne made a disappointed noise but didn't protest further. Arthur figured that telling Ariadne the latest development was probably best done while Eames was out of the room. He took a breath and drove ahead.

"I have some more bad news for you," Arthur kept his gaze toward the ceiling, "I told Eames he could stay."

"You did what?" Ariadne asked, stunned. "Why?"

"Why?" Arthur's attention shot to Ariadne and he began to sit up slowly, rubbing at his head, "Because the alternative would hurt him. He's my friend, and he's my partner; that's why."

Ariadne didn't seem convinced at Arthur's flat declaration, "Who are we going to say he is?"

"Your uncle."

"My uncle?" Ariadne looked at Arthur as if he were the one bringing this craziness down upon their house "My fair haired uncle from England who happens to look nothing like my father or me?"

"Don't be so cynical," Arthur said, "It's never flattering. We'll tell them he's your uncle on your mother's side. And you know what people like Maurice Fischer think of Europeans. It'll help explain some of Eames' eccentricities."

"Yes, his eccentricities," Ariadne bit back sarcastically, "Because our happy homosexual home will look like an eccentricity in Maurice Fischer's eyes."

"Jesus Christ, Ari," Arthur leaned forward, "You're only twenty, you have two decades of living under your belt, do you think you could have a little hope? And better alliteration maybe?"

"It's just," Ariadne deflated from incredulous to nervous, "When they see you and Eames together they're going to know. It's so obvious, it's always been obvious. You two are the biggest romantic cliché ever. Orbiting like planets around each other, always having stars in your eyes, you name the romantic comedy and you guys are it. Sealed. Done deal."

Ariadne grabbed Arthur's discarded ice off the floor and collapsed onto the couch next to her father. She rested her head against his shoulder and put the ice against her neck. "What a mess."

"What we really need is a female," Arthur said, "In any scenario a female makes the whole thing easier. We can get away with Eames as an uncle if we had a woman here as a mother. The scheme would go off as a hitch then; every detail would fall into place. The irony of a gay man needing a woman is not lost on me, that's for sure."

Ariadne didn't bother answering. She was imagining what she and Robert were going to end up using as an excuse to his family. Maybe an impromptu car crash?

"Why don't we just see if your mother can be brought in on this?"

"My mother?" Ariadne was sitting rim rod straight in an instant, "My mother wouldn't do it, would she?"

"We don't have any way to know for certain," Arthur straightened the line of his slacks and leaned back into the couch. Eames was always telling him he needed to use his imagination more. If this plan didn't meet that quota then he didn't know what would.

"Not seeing me in twenty years is probably a good indication," Ariadne retorted pointedly. It was honestly something that had stuck with her when she was younger. The idea that the person whose body she had come out of hadn't ever bothered to try to get in contact again. It had stopped bothering her eventually. She had a wonderful family, and she didn't need a stranger she'd never met.

Until now, evidently.

Arthur's mouth had opened but he was hesitant when he finally spoke "It was twenty years ago," he said finally, simply. "She was young, scared, and broke in a country that wasn't her own. Though, now…"

"You can't be serious," Eames' enunciation was sharp with incredulity. Yes they had kept abreast of Ariadne's mother's movements over the years, but in Eames' eyes that had never been about anything more than making sure they knew where to get a kidney for Ari if she needed it. "It's entirely unfair of you to try and talk Ariadne into something like that, you'll just bugger about…"

Ariadne, though, was leaning towards Arthur like a bloodhound that had caught a scent. "You really think she'd do it?"

Arthur shrugged. It wasn't for him to say.

"Oh," Eames exhaled. Shock prevented him from saying anything else. He suddenly had the urge to take a step back, through the doorway and out of the room, away from the two people on the couch. He closed his mouth and willed the feeling to pass. He'd do most anything to make sure this night went well for Ariadne.

X-_X-_X

"Ah, mon dieu! Arthur? Sweet Arthur?" tinkling laughter followed and Arthur still remembered the review where an enraptured critic had waxed poetic about Mal's laughter. "It's been a lifetime; I hardly believe I am really speaking to you."

"I assure you I'm not a fraud impersonating a gay man that you slept with over two decades ago," Arthur quipped, more out of nerves than the urge to be witty. Eames glanced askew at him, subtly, but Arthur still caught it over the cell phone at his periphery.

"Where are you?" Mal demanded, she sounded like she was being given a treat. It was far from the emotion that she'd had when they'd last parted. This time Arthur wasn't paying her off.

"In the car," Arthur said shortly, trying to shift lanes. Who thought travelling out to the Hampton's on a weekend would be easy? "We'll be there in fifteen."

"I can hardly wait," Mal said, laughing again, and Arthur wondered if it were required to laugh that much at the art gallery the woman owned or if she were really being genuine. Then Arthur felt horrible, once upon a time before childbirth and money they'd been friends. They'd loved one another, even if it wasn't in the right way.

"Me too," Arthur mumbled, more out of reflex. He let his mobile drop into the cup holder and sighed, running a hand through his hair. Eames was silent in the passenger seat. He was staring at the route 495 view as if it were all consuming.

"She'll see me," Arthur said, only to say something, anything.

Eames nodded, distractedly, but not stoically enough to hide what Arthur realized was nervousness. These were the moments that Arthur felt selfish.

When Arthur and Mal had been together Eames had been in the picture too. Arthur remembers easily the afternoons where the two of them, he and Eames, could flirt away hours. They performed in the same company.

When Mal decided that Arthur needed the experience of a woman it conveniently fell at the same time that she had signed on with a different company, although she was already tired of dance and of acting. Arthur had agreed because she had been lonely, and she had been leaving. To be truthful—Arthur had been lonely too.

Arthur ran another hand through his hair. He checked his mirrors, and then passed a slow truck just for something to do with his hands.

When Mal had left Eames and he had fallen together like puzzle pieces, eight and a half months later they were still infatuated with each other when Arthur had gotten a call from a Frenchwoman he never thought he was going to hear from again. Arthur had been signed on to a new company, with a new starlit career ahead of him.

But suddenly there was Ariadne.

Eames had been fine with the idea that he and Arthur would continue at the pace they were, that they may be performing separately but that they'd see where the relationship went. Ariadne changed things.

The part that Arthur remembered the most was always the part that mattered to him the most. The part where he had come back to his apartment with a baby only to find tea and an Englishman waiting. The part that Arthur liked to forget was the part before that where he and Eames had railed against each other for hours after Arthur told him about Mal, and about the baby sitting in a hospital somewhere.

Arthur had taken the advance money from his contract and given it to Mal. When she forced Ariadne at him and ran he'd made sure that she'd be okay, and that she'd be supported. He also had made it clear that this was it, that she couldn't turn up in a few months and demand her baby back.

She never did.

Eames had accepted Arthur's new life with calm deference. When Arthur had sat Ariadne down, on the couch in a group of pillows because he hadn't even had time to buy baby supplies, Eames had come forward, mumbled something about going baby shopping, and then had swooped down and dropped a kiss on baby Ariadne's forehead.

"She has your eyes," Eames had said. And that had been that. Arthur had finished his contract, gotten a business loan, and opened a club. Eames had babysat, moved in with him, and started a new career for him.

This is why at times like this Arthur feels selfish. It's because in all the turmoil of the day the thought about how Eames would feel going to see Mal hadn't occurred to him until just then. It hadn't occurred to him when Eames had slid into the passenger seat, or when Arthur was worrying about googling her studio and getting directions.

"Why don't I drop you off at a café or something?" Arthur ventured as lightly as he could, glancing away from the road just long enough to try and glean Eames's reaction. "It'll take me ten minutes and then I'll pick you up?"

"That's sweet, darling," Eames said just loud enough to be heard, and maybe Arthur had misjudged because there was an edge in Eames's expression that wasn't nerves. "But I'll come up with you, I'm sure there's a waiting room."

Arthur's hands tightened on the steering wheel. Trust Eames to take the time to sound smug.

X-_X-_X

"Well, it's certainly…" Eames trailed off, looking around the ostentatious gallery. His eyes went from the elaborate glass sculptures to the walls completely covered in painted scenes, "French."

Arthur only nodded, sharing the sentiment. Even if Arthur had never met Mallorie Miles (or Mallorie Cobb now as the sign out front proclaimed) just looking around the gallery would be more than enough to know all about her. Her style hadn't changed much over the years, Arthur could say that much.

He grabbed Eames under the elbow and directed him over to a reception desk where a petite, dark haired woman was looking at them expectantly. Arthur smoothed down the front of his shirt nervously, and tried to smile.

"The gallery is closed for today," the receptionist greeted them, "but I'd love to help you with information about out various exhibits."

"Uh," Arthur coughed and cleared his throat, avoiding Eames's sideways gaze, "No, my name's Arthur Halpert? I have an appointment with Mal. Mallorie."

"Oh!" The girl's eyes went wide, and she bustled around the edge of the desk. She gripped Arthur by the forearm and turned him towards the gallery's main floor. "Mrs. Cobb's waiting in her office for you, sir." To Eames she said dismissively, "You can have a seat in one of the chairs against the wall, thanks."

Arthur looked, somewhat helplessly over his shoulder at Eames. Arthur shrugged uncomfortably and Eames only rolled his eyes in return. He made a shooing gesture at Arthur and sat down in one of the seats provided in the lobby area. He crossed his arms and his legs and leaned defiantly back into the chair, "The bloody French."

X-_X-_X

Mal rose when Arthur was shown through her office doors, smiling.

The office was light and airy, with comfortable couches and a low coffee table in one part of it, and a working mini-bar in the other. Arthur noticed these details in his periphery. His mouth was suddenly dry.

The mother of his child, and the only woman he'd ever slept with, was standing in front of him for the first time in twenty years.

"Arthur Halpert," she said softly, over enunciating the consonants of his name. Her smile was strange, in a way, because to Arthur it looked as if she were about to console him.

"Mallorie Miles, or Cobb now I suppose," Arthur smiled as widely as he could, but he was afraid that wasn't very wide. He worried if she could see the crow's feet at his eyes. Mal herself looked just as she always had.

"Yes, I am a Missus' now, who knew that day would come?" Mal laughed her usual laugh, but her expression lightened. She gestured to the posh looking couch, "Please, take a seat, Arthur."

Arthur took a seat mutely, patting his lapels flat.

"I've thought about you so many times over the years, Arthur," Mal moved, swayed, over to the mini-bar, picking up a couple of glasses "Every time I saw an ad for the birdcage, I thought of you there, running things as you do."

Arthur didn't have anything to say in return. Really, his thoughts of her had been few and far in between over the years. His darling friend at one point, but since that point passed he only ever worried about Mal in relation to Ariadne. Did he have the correct information for her medical history? That sort of thing.

"Are you still with…ah, Eames?" she asked brightly, only hesitating briefly on the name.

"Yes," Arthur replied with genuine affection and pride, "We've never separated."

Mal nodded absently, and instead of taking a seat next to him on the couch she sat on top of the coffee table right in front of Arthur. He noticed, briefly, that her skirt had ridden up. He accepted the glass she offered him. If anything, maybe it would help his anxiety. Liquid courage.

"You're doing well for yourself?" Arthur remembered to ask after he'd taken a drink.

"Oh yes," Mal reclined her head back, closing her eyes and sighing happily, briefly. "The money you gave me started this place; if it were a corporation I think I would have offered you stock Arthur. I've had the pleasure of being very successful."

Arthur could believe it. He was fairly certain that the Louis Vuitton handbag that he could see hanging on a hook in the corner would send Eames into insane fits of jealously. He took another sip of his drink. "Well, I got Ariadne for it. It was a fair trade."

Arthur realized that Ariadne might take offense to being fair trade for thirty thousand dollars, but Mal only bit her lip. Arthur studied her. There were changes about her now that he cared to notice, now that he wasn't worrying about how he appeared. She seemed tense; unnaturally so. It was as if she couldn't bring herself to relax in her own skin.

Arthur noticed that while she had poured herself a drink it sat, discarded, on the table beside her.

"How is she?" Mal asked softly, hands fidgeting in her lap, "She is happy?"

"She's fine," Arthur said automatically, a touch defensive. "She wants to get married."

"Married? How old is she now?"

"Twenty."

"Twenty? Non, Arthur has it really been so long?"

Arthur nodded, leaning forward into her space "Today, for the first time, your daughter needs you, Mal. There is something that you can help with, and I think you have a responsibility to do it."

Mal put a hand on her stomach and sucked in a breath.

X-_X-_X

In the waiting area by the receptionist's desk, Eames rifled through the bag he had toted in with him. He was a touch angered. He finally settled on pulling out his compact, anything to distract himself.

He was dabbing liberally at the corners of his eyes when he noticed that the receptionist's gaze had wandered to him. "Shiny," he excused, waving his compact a bit, "All this blasted sun creating oils and the like."

She nodded, clearly finding him odd, and returned to her book.

Eames closed his compact with an offended snap and eyed the book she was reading. Nietzsche, as if she understood more than every fifth word. He'd offer her a copy of "Billy Budd" if he had one.

Eames had resettled his bag and crossed his legs, decidedly not watching the receptionist, when the intercom on the girl's desk buzzed, and a voice he hadn't heard in two decades spoke.

"Amara, cancel my appointments for tonight. Oh, you'll need to let Dominic know that something has come up, yes?"

"Right away Mrs. Cobb," the way that Amara reached for her boss's appointment book made Eames' eyebrows rise. A little bit of hero worship right there if he did say so himself. Though, at least now that Arthur had convinced the Frenchwoman to come to dinner it meant his partner would be coming out soon and they could go home.

X-_X-_X

"Drink to this Senator Fischer, his son, and our Ariadne," Mal was popping a bottle of champagne before Arthur could really protest. But she was smiling, and to be honest Arthur was a little slow from all the drink she'd already forced on him. He wasn't twenty anymore, his stamina wasn't what it used to be.

"I'm afraid I haven't done much for her," Mal said, suddenly, but in a matter of fact tone, not one of regret. "I never considered myself maternal, you see?"

"That's alright," Arthur hastened forward to reassure her, Mal's movements were sending champagne onto the fine quality carpeting as she lackadaisically poured. "I'm maternal, and Eames is practically a breast."

Mal laughed. She handed Arthur one of the flutes, and while he took a drink he noticed that once again she managed to put her own to the side, as if she'd purposefully forgotten about it.

A quarter of an hour passed and Eames was getting impatient in the lobby and Arthur was on his third flute full of champagne. The flow of conversation was surprisingly as quick and comfortable as it had been up until Mal had gone away.

"Do you remember our show, Arthur?" Mal was smiling. Arthur was woozy. He'd admit that he couldn't handle alcohol like he was a twenty something cocksure boy still. "When we first met?"

Arthur smiled fondly. They were good memories. "Of course."

Mal smiled and ducked her head. The perfect image of the sometimes shy but vibrant French girl he'd first met in New York just over two decades prior.

"Love is in the air!" Arthur sang, wanting to see her smile.

"Different kinds!"

"Quite clearly!"

"People out of their minds—,"

"—act queerly!"

Mal laughed. She gave Arthur the same smile that she'd flashed at him the night she'd taken him to bed. It was a smile that had gotten her many a call back audition. She was the stage lights the colorful costumes and the glittering photographs all rolled into one perfect package.

She began to sway and she sat down her still untouched flute. She crossed in front of Arthur and began to sing the chorus, even though Arthur had spent the majority of his time on dance he still managed to remember the old tune well enough to harmonize with her.

He laughed genuinely when she began to pick up their old choreography. He corrected her once and found himself beginning to feel his way through the steps as well. "Virgins are distinctly nervous!"

Arthur turned her, just remembering his cues in time. Mal continued to sing, and Arthur was surprised when she turned back around and laid her hand tenderly on his chest. He looked down, confused, for a moment. Alcohol was slowing his reactions.

Mal looked at him, sucked in a breath, and pulled away. "How handsome you were, Arthur. Everyone wanted you, non?"

Arthur dimpled. "Are you trying to embarrass me or what?"

Mal laughed. Mal picked her glass up, but it was only a small sip that she took, barely a touch of the lips to the glass. "You were terrified."

"I thought I was going to have a heart attack." Arthur rolled his eyes, "Only you could so innocently lure someone like that. I walk into your room and you disrobe. My first thought was honestly that somehow your robe had torn."

"I spent thirty dollars convincing Bernard to lock you out of your room. Poor Arthur, you had no choice but to come to my room!" Mal threw her head back and laugh. "Thirty dollars? In those days? Ah, but I was determined to have you, cher."

Arthur smiled and tipped his champagne back. The young French girl, terrified of a new country and terrified of having to go back home and tell everyone she'd failed—that girl was gone, but Arthur could see how she peaked through this new, grown woman.

"I thought 'What the hell, go for it.'" Arthur told her quietly. "Let's see what straight guys are always harping about."

"And it worked!"

Arthur grimaced, "Between two forty three and three oh-two a.m., twice."

X-_X-_X

Fifteen minutes later Eames had taken the receptionists' book about Nietzsche, and told her in no uncertain terms that she might want to start with Freud because she was exhibiting some tendencies.

Even Nietschze bored Eames after a while, and eventually his reading options were down to a magazine someone had left on a chair that had a front page discussing birthing techniques, or a book about French Impressionist painters that had apparently been written by Mal and was being sold by the gallery.

Eames snorted and crossed his arms. As if.

X-_X-_X

Arthur could safely say that the alcohol had hit his bloodstream by this point. His limbs felt heavy and his mind lethargic. It took him a few minutes to realize that his eyes were closed and his head was resting on the back of Mal's office sofa. She was perched on the arm next to him.

"You're in perfect shape," Arthur said, thinking it as he took in her still stunning figure. The words left his lips before his brain could figure out whether it would be inappropriate to say so. He realized, distantly, that Mal was running a hand through his hair. Her skirt had slid up.

Arthur covered the statement up by moving on to say, "And you can still dance."

Mal leaned towards him though, a cool hand swooping over his brow. "So can you, Arthur," she returned, softly. "Though, I don't get to do much dancing these days."

Arthur tried to hang onto the morose note in her voice, trying to sober up his thoughts, and it half succeeded. He'd managed to sit forward and lean away from her when her hands came up to frame his face. Arthur paused, suddenly nervous. If he wasn't mistaken the emotion of the room had changed tangibly.

"Mal…?" Arthur shifted uncomfortably. Mal was smiling at him though, but in the way that he had always labeled 'French.' It was dangerous.

"Where did these grey hairs come from," the words were so very melodic as she spoke them that she could have been singing. Her fingers lifted to brush against the shock of grey that had appeared in the last couple years at either of Arthur's temples. She began to rub slow circles against Arthur's temples with her thumbs.

When Arthur had brought the grey hairs up when they had begun to crop up a couple years prior Eames had said, simple and to the point, that it was better than Arthur going bald and he should be thankful that he got the chance to look distinguished.

That, the regular domestic memory of his partner, was enough to have Arthur raise his hands up to Mal's wrists, holding them tight with the intention to pull her away.

"Pardon me-," the doors opened and Eames and a harried secretary rushed in. Eames had obviously been coming back to see what was taking so long. When Eames stopped short and the secretary began to apologize to Mal Arthur realized, nauseas, what Eames must be seeing. How long had he even been sitting there with Mal?

Arthur and Mal, close together, hands on one another, leaned close. It was intimate.

"Eames," Arthur rose from the sofa. No more words were forthcoming, but Arthur doubted there was anything he could say that would fix the horror on Eames' face anyway. Eames motioned for Arthur not to talk, and then simply turned around and strode out of the office.

Outside, Eames unlocked the car with barely concealed anger. Muttering under his breath he slid into the driver's seat, never mind that he'd never bothered to get an American driver's license, and started the car.

He merged into traffic, gunning the car a bit harshly, and didn't bother to look back at the gallery. He was only fairly certain he was heading in the correct direction.

X-_X-_X

The door hit the wall with a loud smack when Arthur stormed into the apartment. Nash almost nailed his thumb, and clambered down off his ladder before Arthur could be tempted to overturn it with Nash atop.

"Is Eames here?"

"…No?"

"Great," Arthur let out a frustrated noise and ran his hand through is already thoroughly mussed hair. "Then he's probably lost, driving back here in the wrong goddamn lane."

Nash hid the hammer out of sight behind his back.

"I had to take the fucking bus just to get to the train."

Arthur rubs at his face and leans against the newly barren walls. Now that he had a moment to look around he can see the apartment's almost entirely empty. His books are gone, his art is gone, his piano is gone.

And Nash is hanging a crucifix on the wall.

"Are we crucifying someone tonight?" Arthur asks, honestly curious about the three foot tall icon that Nash is wrangling. "Because, you know, I thought that went out of style when stripes did."

Nash rolls his eyes (where Arthur can't see) and says, "I traded that stupid moose head in for it. It was this or a Dale Earnhardt race car bed."

Arthur sort of tips his head and says, "Well considering who these people are the race car bed might have been better."

"And they threw in books!"

Arthur raps his knuckles against the wall and sighs. "Yes Nash, you've done an amazingly creative job, thank God I pay you just enough money to survive in this city."

"Dad?" Ariadne hurries into the room and Arthur pushes up and off the wall, trying to smile. He's fairly certain he fails at it though. "Did you do it? Did you talk to my mother? Is she coming?"

"Yes, she's coming," Arthur says, his bitter sarcasm going unnoticed by his daughter. Nash finally manages to hang the crucifix.

"Thank God," Ariadne looks as if this solves everything, but Arthur's still fairly certain his partner has probably been arrested for traffic violations and that the people at the pawn shop across the street are going to hawk all of his possessions that Nash dragged away.

Ariadne comes forward to wrap her arms around Arthur like she's still a kid, and leans up to kiss him on the cheek. She mumbles her thanks into his chest and Arthur can't help but feel a little better about the hell he's been put through the whole afternoon.

"Well, jolly good, that's all worked out then hasn't it?"

Arthur turns and finds that Eames has entered the still open apartment door. He has the oddest look on his face, something that Arthur would be hard pressed to describe. He looks almost as if he's resigned himself to something. However, the way his eyes trace Arthur's movements looks like an accusation.

Eames' expression was completely genuine—up until the point where Arthur moved to step forward. Then, all at once, the hysterical stage personality of the days before snapped into place.

With flare Eames announced to the room, "I just stopped to gather up a few things. Would you mind grabbing my overnight bag, Nash, dear?"

Arthur turned, pinning Nash with a glare, daring him to move. Looking between Eames and Arthur Nash began hesitantly stepping towards the door, and eventually just decided to try his luck and run and grab Eames' bag.

"Oh, sweetheart, I would have loved to have the chance to see your children," Arthur turned back around just in time to see Eames envelope Ariadne in a hug, pointedly not looking at Arthur standing next to her.

"Unbelievable," Arthur muttered, "Where the hell do you think you're going? This is not the day for a drama queen moment, Eames, and you are tap dancing on my last nerve. If you're going to act the martyr don't you think you had better fetch our new crucifix off the wall?"

"Keep taking the piss, Arthur," Eames says, curt. "It's something I'm certainly used to."

"Not this again," Arthur groaned, "Didn't we have this discussion the other night? Should I lie in wait for a glitter bomb? Eames you're acting even more ridiculous than you normally do, and you've been this way since before Ariadne came home. What is your problem?"

"Why don't you ask Mal what my bloody problem is, Arthur? Why don't you ask her while you're all having your cozy, perfectly suburban family dinner tonight?"

Arthur and Ariadne stood side by side, Ariadne looking incredulously between them. Something cold was creeping its way up her spine and she was beginning to believe that she had walked into an already heated situation when she had come home.

"I've decided I have little choice in the matter," Eames drew the words out, drawling in a put upon way. His words were penetrating, every bit of attention on him. Just the same as it was when he was performing on stage. "I'm going to go someplace where there's a little bit more sodding equality."

"Equality," Arthur was hell bent to prevent himself from snarling the word. "You've been harping on about equality for weeks. What is with you, seriously Eames? We are two middle aged gay men in New York, and we own a drag club! What equality are you specifically looking for?"

Eames looks at Arthur, really looks at him. He stares him down from the three or four feet that separate them. Then he sighs, and turns away. "Goodbye, Arthur."

"Wait, Mr. Eames!" Nash comes from the direction of the bedroom, Eames' overnight bag swinging in his grasp. Pink with zebra print, a Victoria's Secret special with the word 'Pink' scrawled across it. "Don't forget your bag!"

Nash throws his arms around Eames and says, "Please, I don't want you to go. You really can't leave me with just Mr. Arthur."

Arthur supposed that maybe, possibly, that last part was meant to be a whisper.

Eames accepts the hug with aplomb and a carefully crafted bittersweet smile. It is entirely faked. Arthur can't even believe Eames is standing there because the man has, on more than one occasion, complained about the amount of sweat that Nash manages to manufacture in a day.

"Nash, you can have my gemstones…"

"No I don't want them!"

"…my scarves…"

"I won't take them!"

"…and my wigs."

Nash perks up and releases Eames. "Which wigs?"

Arthur rolls his eyes, his arms crossed. Eames tells Nash, "My best wigs, I certainly won't need them where I'm off to."

Arthur narrows his eyes, "Alright, I'll bite. Where do you think you're off to?"

"A grave, a ditch, a particularly deep puddle will surely suffice. Anywhere really, darling, just a place to die quietly, with whatever dignity I might still have."

Arthur actually checks his pocket for his cigarettes before remembering that he doesn't smoke anymore. "You need to get off whatever horse you're prancing on, Eames. This is getting old fast. We're not on stage, and we have too much work to get done before tonight."

Eames licks his lips. "My horse and I will be off to prance now, thanks for the good years, darling."

Despite Nash's many exclamations the door closes quietly behind Eames.

Arthur balls up Eames' sweater, still in his hands, and chucks it away from him. "'My horse and I will be off to prance now,' his famous last words. And here I thought he was a better showman that that!"

Arthur stalks angrily towards the kitchen and pulls out a chair, sitting as angrily as possible at the table.

"What the hell was that?" Ariadne asks after a moment, "Jesus I don't think I've ever seen you two fight light that."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Arthur grumbles, "We fight all the time. What an asshole."

Ariadne and Nash exchange a look. "Yeah…" she says, "but this is the first time either of you have left. Is Eames serious? Is he actually leaving to go somewhere?"

When Arthur shrugs and bats Nash off him from where the other man is trying to ingratiate himself for a hug, Ariadne begins to panic ever so slightly.

"What do you mean you don't know?" their whole issue about Robert's family coming and her engagement slips to the background. "Where's Eames going, dad? Papa can't, I mean he wouldn't—is he leaving us?"

Arthur sits up straight and whirls around to face Ariadne, "Ari, no," he's off his seat in an instant, wrapping his arms around his daughter, "He's not leaving you; he'd never do that to you."

Arthur forgets sometimes that Ariadne grew up in a household with two parents that constantly showed their love for her. He forgets that Eames' particular brand of melodrama has been witnessed before, but has never been directed at her in quite this fashion.

He realizes exactly how selfish the both of them, him and Eames, have just been.

"Listen," Arthur says softly, slipping her hair behind her ear, "Papa Eames will be back in no time. If nothing else, he's forgotten his wallet and his favorite handbag."

Ariadne smiles, hesitant, and sort of shakes Arthur off. "Alright, alright."

Arthur sort of smiles at her, embarrassed. His daughter, she's one of a kind. This Fischer guy better know what a great wife he's getting. Marriage is for everyone after all he supposes.

As soon as the thought passes through Arthur's head he stills. His sudden shift must have shown because Ariadne looks at him funny and asks, "What?"

Arthur does some quick thinking. Some of what Eames has been saying starts to shift into place, forming an idea, a possibility. Arthur turns to Nash.

"Was Eames digging through the spare closet?"

"When?"

"Before Ariadne got here. Was he in the guest bedroom at all?"

Nash waves a hand, "How'm I supposed to know? I think maybe he was in there looking for that sewing kit with those fake eye sequins you know? But that was for last month's Safari Show."

Arthur groans and rushes towards the bedrooms. Ariadne follows and makes it as far as the living room before Arthur's back, already tucking something into his pants' pocket. "Nash, you need to start dinner, preferably as soon as possible and without a Jersey Shore break."

"Where are you going?"

Arthur sighs from the doorway. "Where else? I'm going after fucking Eames."

Ariadne turns to Nash. "Can you even cook?"

"Your father seems to think so."

X-_X-_X

Arthur didn't have to look far for Eames. The man was sitting, slumped and looking utterly exhausted, at a bus stop two blocks over. Arthur was relieved though; Eames could have gotten on the subway and rode around in a maze for hours just to spite him. Or he could have left altogether.

The only other person waiting at the stop was a college kid, leaning against the plexi-glass wall of the structure and looking decidedly bored. Arthur took a seat, as close to Eames as he dared without testing the other man's ire. Eames moved away a fraction of an inch and didn't look at him.

"When I was in high school I went an entire four months without talking to anyone, not to my friends, my teachers or my family. The school guidance counselor told my parents it was a stress reaction to the SAT." Arthur started. He fidgeted with the line in his trousers for a moment, then he continued, speaking at an even pace. "At the dance school I forgot to eat for three and a half days because I was studying for an audition one of my instructors had gotten me. I passed out an hour before the audition and missed it because I was still in the hospital when I was supposed to be somewhere else."

Eames' gaze went from the busy streets to somewhere around Arthur's feet. He still wasn't looking at him, but at least he was listening.

"You're a pain in the ass," Arthur leaned back and raised a hand to rub some of the tension out of his shoulder. "I do think you're hysterical when we're not talking about something we should be, I think you're a drama queen, I think you couldn't care less about how the club runs sometimes, and I know you think I'm too highly strung, which you make up for by not even pretending to be organized. You wear women's clothing when we go grocery shopping, and you sing drinking songs horribly off key in the middle of the afternoon."

"But I could give fuck all about that Eames. You've been a wonderful parent to our daughter. You're the only person that can snap me out of it when my moods get too deep. When I forget to eat, or sleep, or talk; you do something completely inane and off the walls and it makes me snap right back to reality without a pause. You make every day of my life seem better than the last. There was never any question that I wanted my life to be your life. Our club, our house, our daughter; I've wanted all of it to be for both of us, or for neither of us. There has never been another option to me."

Eames' lips press thin which Arthur knows means he's fighting off some sort of reaction. Arthur thinks the college kid may have started listening in about halfway through, but he reaches into his pocket and decides he doesn't care.

"So when you say you don't think we're equal, in our lives together, I have to call bullshit." Arthur ever so carefully opens the lid of the box.

Arthur figures at this point that this entire brouhaha has been because Eames discovered the ring and thought that Arthur had changed his mind. So he knows the ring won't be a surprise to him, but Eames still looks down at the box like he's looking at it for the first time.

It was a simple antique gold band, silver leafing running around the circumference of it. Arthur had paid an arm and a leg to get 'My Dream, My Reality' engraved on the inside. It was a throwback to sentiments they had exchanged twenty years ago when their life together began. When the marriage law passed in New York Arthur had gone out, set and ready to buy a ring, propose, and show the rest of the world that their love was just as worthwhile as anyone else's.

Then Arthur got nervous.

Eames had…peculiar political leaning. Arthur had started to overthink the decision. What would Eames say if the man assumed that Arthur was only doing it because now the law said he could? What if Eames flat out said no? So Arthur put the ring in the closet, and told himself that their life together didn't, nor would ever, need a piece of paper to validate it.

Now the ring sat here in his hand, Eames looking at it and Arthur waiting.

"Twenty years together," Arthur says, and he tries to smile because he's gotten good at reading Eames over the years and he thinks he can tell what Eames' expression means, "So what do you think? Ready to file joint taxes?"

"You're sure?" Eames' voice is a whisper, hesitant and afraid, so much unlike the man himself that Arthur wants to speak up and say that the insecurity is all wrong.

Arthur nods. "If you suggest a double wedding with Ariadne though, I have to tell you, we're through at that point. Done."

Eames sort of laughs, his voice wobbly, and takes the small box. "I have to tell you, darling," and his usual confidence is returning by the word, "Don't expect me to take your name, because I'm a modern girl, and we just don't do that nonsense anymore."

Arthur laughs, and it's more a relieved half-sigh than anything else. He reaches over and pulls his and Eames' foreheads together. He stays like that for a minute, watching Eames and letting them just breathe softly at each other.

"I didn't mean to make any of this harder," Eames says, "but when I found the bloody ring I couldn't help thinking that you weren't the type of person to wait on something. You always are decisive. You find new information and always immediately have a response to it. I thought it meant that you'd decided against it, love. Then, I couldn't stop worrying about all this other rubbish too. What did it mean? Did you want to leave? Did you still love me?"

"All that romantic drama is for a much younger man," Arthur says. He slips the ring out of the box and sits in it Eames palm, letting the other man make the decision. "I've known who I wanted to spend the rest of my life with for most of my life. I love you, and that's a fact that won't ever change. I love our life, and I love it because of you."

Eames slips the ring onto the right finger and Arthur realizes the college kid is clapping for them.