The Birdcage
Chapter Two
Enjoy
X-_X-_X
"Good morning, Eames!" the open air market (and 'open air' was a term he used lightly; never wasting an opportunity to bemoan the dangers of city smog to Arthur) was filled with similar greetings, Eames had been seeing the same particular vendors every morning for almost a decade and a half, their faces were synonymous with both early morning light and rowdy street hustlers by this point.
The shout was one of many and it had Eames turning and craning a neck to look over the crowds towards the bead jewelry vendor that had sing-song shouted his name.
"Good morning!" Eames crooned back; he adjusted the silk scarf around his neck. Besides the scarf he wore a light linen shirt and white trousers.
He passed a few dozen more people and paused to sigh, "Oh, what lovely orchids," at the cut flower stand. Alonzo, selling the same sarongs and skirts for near his whole life, waved him over to where he was talking with a customer and Eames smiled and said, "Do go with the aubergine colored, dear" before nodding at Alonzo and sailing past.
Morning market had its own routine and Eames was only too happy to perform as expected. Genial gay sensation present and accounted for, something Arthur disapproved heatedly. Arthur called it a 'stereotype.' Eames enjoyed the roles he played no matter what they were called.
Eames was nearly to his destination when a large brawny arm came at him from his periphery; a lobster in grip.
"We got some nice fresh lobsters this morning, Eames!"
Eames leaned a hand on Mr. Lopez's arm, smiling genially, "Not this morning I'm afraid, Mr. Lopez. The sprog is at home!"
Mr. Lopez chuckled and sent Eames on his way. Eames hummed, and a few minutes later maneuvered his way into his favorite, stylish, little bakery. The baker, a kindly man who never left his shop for fear of being bereft of the aircon, had offered Eames half price and prompt delivery within the first five minutes of greeting platitudes. Eames had talent.
"Now remember," Eames said, pointing at the man with a very serious finger, "I want it to read 'To my Darling Sprog, from Papa Eamsie', yeah? E-A-M-S-I-E."
"No problem, Mr. Eames!"
Eames' eyes drifted down the counter. It seemed cupcakes were the popular treat of the season, at least judging by the colorful displays. Eames smiled to himself. The last time Arthur had attempted to make cupcakes, for a particularly stressful seventh birthday party of Araidne's, they were so blackened that Eames suggested they used them for Rugby instead. The poor dear did not have baking among his skillset.
"I want to get back before she wakes," Eames excused himself, he knew from experience that if one didn't stop the baker from prolonging conversation you would still be in the shop in time for tea.
"I'll just try one of these delicious looking nibbles and be on my merry way," Eames couldn't help a delighted groan and he waved appreciatively towards the baker as he moved away from the displays and out the door.
Well, it was still early. Eames paused and turned back "Well maybe just one more nibble for the road, hm? When the chocolate schneckin beckons…"
X-_X-_X
Arthur managed to stumble into the kitchen with his eyes at least mostly open, though his feet were not on board with the plan and he did manage to bump the kitchen island on his way.
Arthur cursed, steadying himself and glaring at the empty air that separated him from his usual morning perch.
"Well I can tell someone's awake," Nash said, sashaying into the kitchen and around to the French press.
Arthur glared as scathingly as he could manage in Nash's general direction.
"Is that a 'Good morning, I regret I haven't fired you today look' or a 'Good morning, did I forgot to kill you look'?"
Arthur stared intently at Nash before turning to pick up his paper with an incredulous snort; clearly intimating that he was taking the high road in the situation by not forming a reply.
Nash managed to roll his eyes in a direction that his employer wouldn't see. The general rule in their household had always been that no one should expect evidence of human life before ten.
Arthur tightened his robe and opened his paper. His robe had been a birthday present from Eames several years before. Most days Arthur could manage to convince himself that it wasn't two feet shorter than what was generally appropriate and covered in a gargantuan image of a tiger.
After receiving the gift Arthur had attempted to soothingly explain to Eames that they were in no way Siegfried and Roy.
"Here," Nash murmured, leaning over Arthur's shoulder to hand him a heavy ceramic mug.
"What is this? Sludge?" Arthur raised an eyebrow and managed to appear as though the coffee were personally offending him. "Do I pay you to make me sludge every morning?"
"Yes, it's sludge." Nash said simply, "I thought it'd make a nice change from coffee. I guess you better run down to the Starbucks."
After a moment Nash turned to peer sideways at Arthur, bringing a couple of breakfast bowls to the counter. "Why didn't you tell me it was Ariadne seeing you last night?" he whined, "I wouldn't have been so judgmental to you."
Arthur rarely ever felt that he should have to explain himself, especially to Nash, a man from Queens who pretended he was Guatemalan. "Would you put on some clothes?" he replied instead, sloshing his coffee to motion at Nash's once more naked chest and cut jean shorts.
"Why won't you let me be in the show, Mr. Arthur?"
Arthur didn't reply (probably hadn't even paid attention) and Nash continued "Is it because you're afraid of my Guatemalan-ness?"
Arthur's brow furrowed expectantly, "You're what?"
"My Guatemalan-ness," Nash waved a hand at his unclothed torso, "My natural heat. You're afraid I'm too primitive to be on the stage with your estrogen rockets and your twink platoon."
Arthur slowly turned to peer at Nash "And tell me, Nash, do you consider Eames one of the 'estrogen rockets' or one of the 'twink platoon'? Because I have to tell you, I think his body may have missed the message on the first and Eames seems to have missed the cut off age on the second. You're not Guatemalan."
Nash was saved from being forced to reply by Eames' timely return.
"You-hoo, darling," Eames called, appearing in the doorway with his arms full of market purchases, "It's the bag lady!"
"Prada or Gucci?" Arthur quipped, already knowing what the answer would be.
Eames wrinkled his nose, "Italian knockoffs. Louis Vuitton is made in France, and as much as it pains me to praise the French: there we are."
Arthur smiled. The simple joke probably shouldn't make him as ridiculously happy as it did. He was hard pressed to care though. Twenty years ago Eames walking through the door to announce he was home was a dream Arthur never fooled himself into having. Amazing thing was that it had eventually become his reality.
"Good morning, Nash," said Eames lightly, dropping all of his morning purchases onto the counter. "Wash those will you? They're delivering the rest 'round noon."
Nash sighed and began examining the bags. His employers had a tendency to pretend that they could cook, or actually prepare meals. Nash began washing the produce, but when he pulled out three heads of cabbage, one after the other, he threw up his hands and turned back to the coffee machine.
"Good morning." Eames trilled lightly, this time to Arthur, leaning across the counter to peck the other man on the cheek. Arthur leaned forward as far as he was willing to, yawning into the embrace. "My God," Eames said, grinning, "That stubble! Truly this must be a sign of the apocalypse to come."
Arthur, who only had a day and a half worth of stubble on his face, gave his partner a withering look. The Englishman may look happier than he had in days but that didn't mean that Arthur should have to break the 'before ten o'clock' rule.
Nash handed a mug of coffee off to Eames and stumbled a bit when Eames grinned brightly and said "Thank you, dear."
After a moment's noisy sip (Arthur steadfastly attempted to ignore it all) Eames made a contented noise and murmured "Turkish coffee," in a tone of exaltation.
Nash snorted and shot Arthur as dirty a look as he dared "See?" he asked, turning back to the sink with a grumbled "sludge" under his breath.
"Is Ariadne awake yet, love?" Eames inquired of his partner. He wrapped both hands around his mug and leaned back against the kitchen island, angling his body towards Arthur.
Arthur turned the page of his newspaper, making a grunt of negation.
Eames didn't seem to notice the brutish behavior, merely cocking his head sideways with a genuine look of sympathy "Poor girl must have been exhausted."
Eames' eyes slid sideways to look at Arthur, "You should have told me she was coming last night, you caused a right fuss with your need for secrecy," Eames shook his head, setting his coffee on the island and declaring dramatically, "Truth is you loathe to share your daughter with me, Arthur."
Arthur continued to read. There was a fascinating article about the plumber's union. Fascinating.
Eames attached himself to the basket of freshly dried laundry awaiting him across the room and picked one of Ariadne's shirts up to fold, smiling fondly. "Would you look at this? Threadbare, this shirt is. No matter how many shirts I send that girl she only wears this one."
Eames turned to shake the purple Henley in Arthur's direction and seemed to notice his lover's facial expression for the first time. What he had initially took to be the usual cross morning behavior was very obviously something more. Eames set the shirt down and put a hand on his hip.
"You have circles darker than kohl under your eyes," Eames declared, gesturing accusingly "and your brow is furrowed even deeper than normal, positively canyon-like. What's wrong, darling?"
Arthur summed up all the miserable thoughts that had been plaguing him all morning and expelled them in one flat sentence. "Ariadne's getting married."
Nash turned around at once but it seemed as if Eames hadn't even heard the sentence.
"Don't be ridiculous," Eames said airily, he waved a hand and continued a train of thought from earlier "I picked up a chicken to roast for dinner, Ricky said a garlic sauce would be all that would be needed…"
Arthur slid off his stool and grabbed up a small orange pill bottle by the sink. It was probably amazing that he had only needed to start blood pressure medication this year. Any second now…
"Married?" Eames demanded, turning back to the rest of the kitchen inhabitants, "What do you mean married?"
"You know what I mean," Arthur said tiredly, his expression resigned. Nash handed him a glass of water and Arthur downed his pill.
"I don't understand. She's twelve."
"Yes you do too understand. She's twenty, no matter what we pretend. And let's face it, she's more grown up than anyone we know and we've been letting her drink since she turned eighteen."
"No!" Eames' jaw was working furiously. He stared at Arthur, wordlessly demanding answers.
"Some boy she met at school," Arthur said dismissively, sitting back down.
Eames realized the ramification of what Arthur was saying and put a hand to his face, "Oh no," he groaned. "But, she's just a girl still, she's too bloody young! This will ruin her life. Or mine."
Arthur was glad that Eames shared his opinion but he leaned forward seriously and said, "Listen, we've been through all that, alright? The bottom line is she's getting married no matter what we say, so the less said: the better."
Nash was gaping at them both.
Eames began sucking in great shuddering breaths in exaggeration "Just this morning I was feeling so good, and now…" he trailed off and clutched at his chest, closing his eyes with an air of great theatrics.
"Just breathe," commanded Arthur without much empathy. "Let it go."
The door across the room opened and the girl now entering knew what was happening immediately. "Oh," Ariadne said dryly, looking at Eames' display, "You've heard the news then."
Eames immediately quieted his gasping breaths and focused in on Ariadne. "Oh, Ari," he said, "This is quite the shock isn't it? I'm not saying a word! I promised your father."
Ariadne pulled the refrigerator door open. She thought there wasn't a chance in hell of Eames not sharing his opinion. She pulled a carton of juice towards her and sighed. It was never an uneventful day at home that was for sure.
"—but you're only twenty," Eames was continuing, "and if you throw yourself away on some dormitory slag, you'll be inconsolably regretful for the rest of your life. There! Enough said."
Ariadne closed the refrigerator and shared a look with her father. There were literally no words than could be said in response to a statement like that.
Ariadne took a great gulp from the orange juice carton and rolled her eyes when Nash immediately took offense and made shocked, reproachful noises while handing her a glass. Ariadne raised a brow, an expression she'd learned from her father, and held the glass uselessly. Nash didn't get the point; it's not like she wanted a whole glass.
Eames was managing to continue the conversation all by himself. "Well don't just stand there," he said finally, opening his arms, "A kiss would be much appreciated. Children these days can't even greet a person properly anymore, I swear…"
Ariadne had to smile tiredly at that, putting the juice on the counter she crossed the kitchen and into Eames' waiting arms. She wrapped her arms as tight as she could around his middle, laying her head on the shoulder she was still too short to reach fully. "Hello, Eamsie," she murmured.
Eames smiled contentedly back at her, his eyes flickering over to Arthur's. Arthur was staring at them, his face mirroring Eames' and he didn't deny Eames the wordless message that he was glad at the sight that Eames and Ariadne made together.
"Darling," Eames put a hand to his chin and huffed tragically, "Our little girl is going to leave us, and we won't have any others."
"Not without a miracle," Arthur agreed.
X-_X-_X
"Now when I and Senator Fischer founded the Coalition of Moral Order we stool stalwart in the idea that government should run on more than a political view! But should depend on morals…"
"I think what Senator Jackson is trying to say…"
"—Abortion and the devils work! American morals…"
"—Same-sex marriage!"
"Pornography would not exist!"
Maurice Fischer, leaned forward towards the dining room television with interest, licked his lips in an anticipatory gesture when his own face appeared on screen.
"It's a wonderful show," Margot Fischer said, with as much feeling as she could interject into the words. Personally, she thought that all the shouting made for frankly unintelligible conversation.
"It's the most brilliant show on television today," Maurice declared with what Margot considered a sigh of completion.
"…this is why politicians make laws to protect us. That's why both houses are now Republican."
Maurice grinned and turned the television off before the democratic guest panelist could voice his objections.
"Bravo," Mrs. Fischer tried to smile at her husband, "It's the perfect platform."
"Yes. I'm so glad I got on Browning's bandwagon instead of Dole's," he shook his head with an air of degradation, "Dole is just so…"
Margot nodded, "Dark."
"Well, I was going to say liberal but he's dark too." Glancing back down at the large bill draft Maurice went on to grumble, "I should fire that woman."
Margot nodded but her mind was elsewhere. Making a decision she leaned forward and put her head in hand, "You know this young woman that Robert wants to marry," she began.
"Ah, Miss. Porter," Maurice interrupted without acknowledging his wife. He held his digital voice recorder up to his mouth and slid his reading glasses down his nose to examine the draft in front of him. "Section two, third paragraph: it's 'porno' not 'pronto.'" Senator Fischer shook his head and mumbled something intelligible about his secretary's idiocy.
"I wonder if he's old money," Margot asked, speaking as soon as her husband lowered his device "I just mean; a cultural attaché." She gave Maurice a significant look as if her emphasis on the last words should mean something in particular.
The door to the kitchen swung open and a matronly woman in a maid's uniform stuck her iron grey head out. "Senator Fischer, your campaign manager is calling. He says he's got to talk to you."
"Thank you, Bridgette," Maurice dismissed Margot's words, picking up his draft to continue to study as he made his way distractedly to the phone. "You know," he said over his shoulder "This new manager always has something to ask. I knew we shouldn't have hired a Methodist."
Margot stirred honey into her tea and wondered if it were warm enough outside to escape the house and sit by the lake for a few hours.
"Hello, Benjamin," Maurice picked up the phone and prepared for any and all inane chatter his manager could come up with that morning. He furrowed his brow "Ready for what?" he asked.
A few moments later: "What?"
"What's the matter, Maurice?" Margot called.
"Browning's dead."
Ben was still talking in his ear. "He died in bed?" Maurice confirmed, steeling himself. "Who's bed?"
"A prostitute?"
"No!" Margot declared, appalled. She raised an eyebrow at her saucer, she never thought old preacher turned politician Browning would have it in him.
"A minor? Black?"
Margot's eyes went wide and she set her tea down as Maurice turned back towards the dining room, livid. She was enthralled.
"I don't believe this!" he declared, "I don't fucking believe this!"
Maurice stamped along the wooden floorboards until he was breathing and leaning heavily on the dining room table. "I'm ruined!" he raged.
"Maurice," Margot rushed to console him "Now, you cannot be held accountable for Senator Browning's private life."
"Margot! I am the vice president for the coalition for moral order! My co-founder has just been found dead in the bed of an underage black whore!"
Margot didn't have anything to respond.
"Now just wait until the media gets a hold of this!" he shook his head in outrage and astonishment "Bridgette!" he shouted. Declaring, "I could really use some candy!" when she opened the kitchen door wide enough to be seen.
"Maurice, you want one of these?" Margot hurried to consolingly hold up a centerpiece dish of jelly sweets.
Maurice calmed somewhat and then grumbled and took a sweet.
X-_X-_X
"My darling little girl!" Arthur heard the exclamation from his position all the way on the other side of the room, and he rolled his eyes at the exaggerated sniff that was given afterwards.
Arthur sighed and set his fingers back to their correct keys. When the bridge picked up he leaned further into the piano, singing softly along. There was something disconcerting about his latest draft of the lyrics. If he could just figure out what it was...
"Why does this seem so real to me..."
Eames lifted the silk embroidered handkerchief to his eyes and wiped at them. He was flipping through one of his most sacred possessions: the scrapbook he'd kept of Ariadne from the moment Arthur had brought her home to her high school graduation. He turned a page and went from chubby newborn pictures to cute toddler smiles.
"Oh!" he exclaimed. A few moments later a picture of Ariadne holding up brand new dress shoes and smiling gap toothed at the camera sent him further into well-acted mourning. He dabbed primly at his eyes.
Arthur sighed. He carefully took his hands of the piano and turned to look over his shoulder. "Eames, please, you're driving me crazy," Arthur shook his head. He didn't have to work out all the kinks on his current piece that instant, but, well…Eames and he both had their versions of stress management.
"I know, darling, truly," Eames muttered brokenly. He briefly turned to look back over his shoulder as Arthur began playing once more. He sent him a mostly scathing look that was meant to convey that Eames thought Arthur should be sitting weeping alongside him. Then Eames flipped another page.
"Oh, the girl scout troop," Eames said, smiling morosely down at the book on his lap. "Look at her in her little scarf. Ari only lasted three weeks before she hit that Becky Masters girl." Eames paused, "I daresay the little bint deserved it. Look at her mother standing there in her boyfriend's wife's jewelry. Oh! Ariadne is so much better than any of these rotten people."
Eames flipped yet another page and began speaking again as if Arthur were beside him. He even raised his voice louder as Arthur followed a coda into a third verse.
"Look, there's the bat mitzvah…" Eames broke into fresh mutterings. The photo was one of his favorites. Arthur was standing proudly beside Ariadne, his arms around her shoulder in clear pride. Ariadne looked as if she still wasn't sure she had done everything right (which Eames didn't blame her for, for God's sake the memorization alone…) but Arthur's easily noticeable boastful smile had reassured her.
Eames sighed again, and this time his words weren't a wail or a faked sob. "Time passes so quickly," he whispered. Arthur continued to play.
"What if this dream turns out to be…"
X-_X-_X
"Well he looked kinda funny, but he was smiling so I didn't worry."
"How do they get them on so quickly?" Margot asked. She was looking disbelievingly at the television. She and Maurice were still seated at the dining room table.
"They pay," scoffed Maurice. He opened another bakery box and took a piece of the fudge inside. He popped it in his mouth and rolled his eyes when the news anchor began to wax poetic about children forced to live on the street.
"They're not mentioning you much."
Maurice shook his head. His facial expressions were ranging from cynical to maniacal. "It's early," he reassured her definitively.
"Senator Browning's last words tonight on Inside Addition!"
Hours later a storm outside, one having nothing to do with the grey clouds or the summer heat, was beginning to form in earnest. Reporters, news vans, and quick stepping cameramen were pushing every boundary of the Fischer estate. They hoped to catch a story that would add even more fuel to the Browning fire.
"Okay, get this shot over here!"
"—I don't know if our best bet is the main door. What if—?"
"That ass from Fox News is—!"
"—Did I tell you to start rolling? No!"
The Sheriff, who's duty it was to dispel the trespassers, was quoting Browning's call girl with the local news crew. "He looked kind of funny. But he was smiling….so I didn't worry!" The group dissolved into chuckles and guffaws.
Above all their heads Margot eyed the gathered masses distastefully.
Robert trudged from his bedroom, bedecked in a college football shirt and drawstring shorts, and appeared in parent's bedroom doorway just as his mother was pulling a shade closed.
"Where's father?" Robert asked. He hadn't been too concerned with the crowd gathered out front. He'd had far more important things on his mind, and engaging in his father's politics had never seemed ideal to Robert. Even now his mind was half occupied trying to remember if he'd shaved yet that day.
"He snuck out this morning," Margot answered. She was clearing all the white boxes off each of the three dressers and upending them in the trash. Almost absently she added, "He needed to meet with his advisors. They refused to come here; can't imagine why."
"Mom," Robert tried.
"I never should have let him go," Margot continued. She found a bag of jellies stashed behind the Hemingway novellas and sent the whole bag into the bin with a glare "After all, how will he get back in?"
Robert rubbed the back of his neck and walked further into the room, eyeing the floor speculatively. "Mom," he tried again.
"Mm Hmm?"
Robert tried to sit on the bed's edge and relax backwards but after a moment succumbed to the knot his stomach and just sat up. "I have something to tell you about Ariadne's parents."
He'd taken the plunge this far. Robert had no choice but to go all the way. He figured that if he were going to marry he should probably find a way to stand up to his parents as well.
Margot completely misunderstood Robert's anxious tone. Her mind immediately jumped to nervous socialites and neo-liberal economically minded oil tycoons. "Oh," she paused in what she was doing and straightened "They can't blame us for this," she said reassuringly "Peter Browning was a common redneck; we had nothing to do with him socially."
"He was my godfather," Robert pointed out unhelpfully.
"Thank goodness these people aren't snobs," Margot continued. She'd opened her arms to gesticulate further but behind them came an impatient rapping. They both turned to eye the window quizzically. Margot jumped and exclaimed in surprise and Robert's face twisted up in confusion.
Maurice was at the window.
Margot rushed forward and Robert moved to help his mother lift the window. Margot immediately began to grab at Maurice's suit, tying to help him inside but not succeeding in much else but causing wrinkles.
Maurice's face turned puce as he groaned and struggled his way through the window. Robert could assume that his father rarely took to using the congressional gym when he was on Capitol Hill.
"What are you doing?" Margot demanded.
"I came through the Orchard," Maurice huffed in reply. Robert hurried reached out an arm to brace Maurice until he was steady on his feet, "And over the top of the barn."
"That's so dangerous," Margot said disapprovingly. "You could have fallen."
"I did!"
Maurice sighed and stood to take his suit jacket off. Robert thought his father looked a wreck, but doubted if the other man would ever be willing to admit it. "This spurious idiocy is all anyone can talk about."
Robert doubted if Senator Browning's scandal was 'spurious' in origin.
"Maurice," began Margot, immediately moving to follow Maurice when he took off through the bedroom in a frenzied march. "If we can manage it I think there may be a solution."
Margot turned to grin over her shoulder at her son and smiled confidently at him as the family moved down the bedroom hallway.
"What? Death?" Senator Fischer snorted. "Didn't work for Peter Browning."
"What about a wedding?" suggested Margot "A big, white, page six wedding?"
"What do you mean? What wedding; who's getting married?"
Robert caught on and moved to lean forward towards his father. Maurice caught on quickly. "No," he groaned dismissively. He bent to loosen his tie and splash water on his face in the bathroom sink. "No," he repeated.
"Why not?" Margot demanded back imploringly. "It would restore your image. A wedding is hope. And a white wedding is family, and morality, and tradition. It would be such a special marriage. I mean, the daughter of a cultural attaché, a diplomat really, who doesn't look down on us because of Senator Browning. One who's willing to join our family. There's the cover of People, Time, and Newsweek right there!"
Robert figured his mother shouldn't have given up her career in publishing for the role of demure housewife and mother. He thought the former suited her better.
Maurice began hesitantly nodding his head as he dried his hands. He looked as if he were genuinely considering his wife's words.
"Love and optimism versus cynicism and sex!" his mother pushed "It would be an affirmation! If necessary we'll get the Pope's blessing; it's not hard."
"I know," Maurice grumbled out, "But he's too controversial. What about Billy Graham? No. Too liberal. Where's the candy?"
"You've had enough candy!" Margot snapped, following right on Maurice's heels as he left the room.
As they re-entered the bedroom Robert's mother turned a demanding stance his way. "This boy—what's his father's name?"
"Arthur," Robert confessed tentatively, "Arthur…Harper."
Margot's eyes narrowed "Really? I wonder if they're related to Tish and Barty Harper. From Boston? That's a celtic name I believe."
Robert knew Tish and Barty. Robert knew that Tish and Barty enjoyed the occasional whip and/or riding crop as well, as had been revealed during a scandal that managed to make page four of The Boston Herald. It was not the best direction for his mother's mind to have turned.
Robert coughed. "No, no…definitely not."
Margot spread her hands wide; another problem had been averted to her. She turned, semi-victoriously, back to Maurice. "Well I think we should go to New York immediately. We should have dinner and…"
Maurice was digging through the bin and pulling the bag of jellies up onto his desk. "For God's sake," Margot muttered. She forced the bin out of Maurice's hands and then continued her thought.
"We should have dinner with the Harpers," she repeated, "and then we should spend the night with the Trumps. Donald's been insisting that you stop by anyway."
Margot turned back to Robert and he tried to grin back reassuring at his mother, who was still holding the garbage bin. She declared triumphantly to the room "It's perfect! Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Harper of New York and France."
X-_X-_X
Staccato piano notes found Arthur's gaze being attracted to the stage and the dancers that were upon it. Arthur's eyes began at the sturdy, heeled dancing shoes and followed long, shapely, stocking clad legs up to meet a powerful set of thighs and eye attracting hips. Moments later Arthur's eyes were drawn upwards even further and he met Eames' eyes with an interested grin.
Eames rolled his eyes back at Arthur and made an impatient noise. He brought his hands up to start the first movement of the song, a microphone firm in his grasp.
Arthur had written the piece they were currently practicing on little more than Doritos and rum. He'd had sudden inspiration and his hard work had paid off with the interpretive ballet routine that Arthur hoped to add electric guitar to later. Eames had seemed thrilled with the idea at any rate, and finding a muscular young man who had failed enough Chorus Line auditions that they could pay him almost pennies had been easy enough too.
Because, really, this was New York.
The bridge began and Arthur watched Eames' arms form perfect gestures. His own arms twitched every now and then. His concentration rooted so hard on the form that his own body urged to stand up and practice the routine as well.
"What is this dream?" Eames began. Lyrics had always been easy enough for Arthur, and if Eames disagreed with anything he'd normally just sing it his own way anyway. Two more lines and Eames' dance partner for the song had been cued in.
The man in question came onto the stage in what were supposed to be graceful swooping gestures, the perfect slow build to a sweeping crescendo, but instead were halfhearted gallops. He was also wearing sunglasses, on stage, inside, during a practice he was getting paid for.
Arthur put a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. It may be a one o'clock rehearsal for a drag performance at a gay club, but did he have to show up hung over?
Eames gave a slow circle, and then a quick twirl and Arthur's eyes were drawn back to the star of his show. The red silk, tied like a skirt at Eames' waist, highlighted just how elegant and graceful Eames' movements really were but Arthur was focused on the cadence of Eames' voice. Perpetually rich and soothing, it was a part on its own of Eames that Arthur had fallen in love with.
Breaking character for just a moment Eames skipped over a few more movements and jerked his microphone three times at his dance partner while saying "Fairy dust, fairy dust, fairy dust." It preluded the next moment when his dance partner was supposed to rise from a graceful crouch and join Eames in a mirror of his movements.
Also the part that Arthur wanted to add the song's first strums of electric guitar.
"Don't be afraid, don't fade away!" Eames continued his melody but the hung-over dancer was missing all of his cues, and moving lazily. Arthur was considering holding a match to the kid and seeing if he could light fire on the alcohol fumes alone.
Arthur opened his mouth to shout 'cut' but Eames beat him to it. "Ah!" Eames yelped, "Don't think I bloody well didn't see that!"
Arthur raised an eyebrow and leaned forward on his elbows as Eames turned towards the seating area, a million words a minute already coming from his mouth. "This is simply impossible," he declared. One silver heeled shoe of his began to tap expectantly on the stage "Either I'm an artist or I'm a soho neglected drag queen who's playing it straight to get laughs from lushes."
"Let's just try to get through the song and blocking," Arthur leaned back on his chair. He'd end up having to fire the kid before Eames killed him most likely.
"You demand far too much," Eames lectured, sotto. "I'm the only one expected to rehearse as we do and bugger if I besmirch even so much as note! I have to give a full on performance yet all the others can just lollygag through it. For Christ's sake, darling, he's chewing gum. Like a cow."
"Hey! Gum helps me think!"
A pause. Then Eames turned a truly belittling glare on the kid. "Mate, you are wasting your gum."
Ariadne appeared at Arthur's shoulder. He gave her a small smile as he stood and called "Let's take it from the bridge once more!" to the stage. If he could mainline some coffee he just might be able to survive the afternoon.
Ariadne took a seat at the table his notes were scattered across and before doing likewise Arthur made sure to add "And no more talking—from anyone," in afterthought.
"I need to talk to you," Ariadne whispered in an undertone.
Arthur shushed her, his focus on the stage as the piano began once again. "You want a drink?" he asked distractedly. Ariadne blew out a huff of air in response. Arthur smiled like that was a logical response and patted the side of her head. He picked up his pen and was focused again the next moment.
Ariadne felt the panic begin welling well past the stage of 'balloon' and settle in the ballpark of 'zeppelin'. She had barely gotten the courage up to descend the stairs and try to talk to her dad, now his brush off was making it even harder for her to get even a sound out.
She looked towards the stage in an effort to calm herself. Eames was a vision as always. When she had been a little girl Eames used to spend hours letting her trot excitedly all around the stage after him. He never denied her, and no matter what rehearsal he was supposed to be going through he'd always break from it to play along to the music with her.
Knowing what the man had done for her, how he had raised her, and how he was a parent to her, made what she had come down the stairs to say all that more nauseating. He had to understand though. And he'd definitely understand if it came from Arthur, right? She hoped.
"Tell me my dream, are you a dreamer?" Arthur broke from watching the song as he processed what Ariadne had asked moments ago.
"What is it?" he hissed quietly.
"Will you come upstairs with me?" Ariadne felt beads of sweat forming on her brow. She hoped they could have this conversation in the anonymity of their home.
"What? No," Arthur shook his head and pinned Ariadne with a steady stare. Rehearsals were effectively 'work hours' and they always had been. While Eames had indulged her Arthur had laid out rules that only trigonometry homework ever took precedence over 'work hours'. "I've got to do this, no, please, not right now, Ari."
Having been dismissed Ariadne nodded once, jerkily.
"Arthur!" the shout had all heads turning towards the stage where Arthur could just catch the kid's receding blown bubble. "Did you see what he just did?"
Ever one to defend one's lover's honor Arthur said, "What did he do now?"
Eames took a moment to say "Hello, Ari darling," before jabbing a finger into the kids face and scowling at Arthur. "He blew a bubble, with his blasted gum, while I was singing. This plonker of a conservatory drop out can't do that when I'm singing!"
"Okay," Arthur began, thoroughly annoyed. He began walking to the stage, looking more like he were staking prey, pinning the kid he hired with a look of disdain and desperation. "I know this is a drag show," he said first gesturing to the club and then gesturing to Eames with a demonstrative eyebrow raised, "But it still has to be a good drag show. Even a great drag show, if possible."
"Yes," Eames interjected his agreement and his two cents, "And just because you're twenty-two and hung like a Clydesdale doesn't mean—,"
"Eames, babe," Arthur said as placating as he could manage, "would you let me handle this?"
"Fine," Eames tossed his hands up and stalked to the other side of the stage, his shoes clacking with every step "You're the director. But I don't have to remind you that the couch is damnably lumpy, and horrendous to sleep on."
Arthur rubbed at his temples and tried to ease the tension that had settled there. "Thank you, that couch was three thousand dollars, if I remember correctly."
"This is a complex number," Arthur tried to explain. The kid seemed unable to keep his head raised for long, though, and settled for staring at Arthur's shoes while Arthur talked, "filled with mythic themes. The woman who is singing invented you; you are her dream. Suddenly, you, the dream, see her, the inventor, and become her reality. She, in turn, becomes your own dream."
"…I don't think I get it."
"Try more gum," Eames called dryly.
"Eames," a note of warning was in Arthur's voice. Eames nodded in acknowledgement and wandered lackadaisically towards the piano.
As Arthur left their table for the stage, no doubt prepared to do some micromanagement, Ariadne couldn't help but feel as if she were on a sinking ship. All the noises of the club preparations faded from around her and she began making her way towards the back stairs as quickly as she could.
Looking down at the club as she ascended the stairs she could fathom no idea for how she was supposed to introduce Robert and his family to her own. They would definitely not understand.
Even from her vantage point on the stairs she could clearly see the image of what Robert's family would see. A forty two year old gay club owner for a father, and a forty six year old drag queen for a mother; it was a setting they wouldn't comprehend. How was she supposed to share her life with them? She knew it was unconventional, but it was her family.
Arthur caught her staring down at them as he tried to manhandle the hired dancer onto his marked stage position. Something chaotic must have shown on her face because he stilled in his movements. After a moment of staring, Ariadne quietly continued making her way to the apartment.
Back on the stage Eames was far from hiding his loathing as the hired help asked obvious question after obvious question to Arthur.
"What am I supposed to do, just stand here?"
"No," Arthur responded, his voice trying to remain calm even as his jaw tightened in frustration.
"It's called acting," Eames muttered.
Both of them ignored him.
"You do a myriad of celebrations," Arthur urged. "You do a courante! Or Zambra, or even a jazzy swing routine, I don't care. Martha Graham if you want. Or Madonna. But you keep it all inside."
Eames watched Arthur act out each of the dances with amusement. He doubted if the novice kid knew anything about any of the dances, or Martha Graham for that matter. But Arthur had excellent control and form and could do any of the dances. And Eames thought he was just as talented at performing them as he had been in the days he actually danced under stage lights.
"Practice," Arthur ordered over his shoulder, before either of them could protest he was taking the stairs three at a time and heading towards the apartment.
Eames pinned his dance partner down with a look of condescension. "So where did you go to dance school?"
"I'm self-taught!" the kid declared back proudly.
Eames rolled his eyes and motioned towards the pianist, taking his place on stage. "Oh, really? I wouldn't have ever noticed."
X-_X-_X
"Well?" Arthur demanded. He entered the room at such a high pace that he had to backtrack when he realized that Araidne wasn't much further than to the side of the doorway. She had a look of unabridged horror on her face.
"Are you pregnant?"
"What?" Ariadne's face scrunched up in revulsion. "Dad, seriously? Do you even know how many free condoms you can get at sch—?"
Arthur raised a hand to silence her. "Not necessary."
"I can't believe you thought I was pregnant."
"Says the daughter that told her father she was getting married at twenty."
"Well, true," Ariadne admitted after a beat.
Arthur rolled up his shirt cuffs, shutting the door in the process. By the time he had turned back to face Ariadne again her momentary distraction had faded and apprehension had returned.
"Are you going to spit it out?" Arthur asked in the same tone he had asked 'Did you knock over and break the Kenyan fertility statue?' when she was a kid. She had.
"Robert and his parents are coming tomorrow."
Arthur's eyes went wide with momentary surprise but the crease in his forehead smoothed with relief. "Is that all?" he said offhand. "Well I suppose Nash'll have to dust. Hopefully without the French maid costume this time. Is that all you interrupted me for?"
"That's not all," Ariadne said, shaking her head. She felt nauseous again and wondered if she shouldn't try the breathing techniques her old track coach had taught her.
"Brandy?" Ariadne offered suddenly. Having a European parent had done wonders for the household drinking age.
"No," Arthur's watched her as she somewhat shakily poured a tumbler for herself, but his expression and body language had shifted from fatherly concern and settled into suspicion.
"Araidne, what's this about? I can't be gone for too long; I have to get back down to rehearsal."
"I love you," she blurted.
"Well it's good to know that the teenage 'I hate you' has faded but was that what you dragged me up here for?"
Araidne visibly braced herself. "Dad," she said weakly, "Robert's father is a senator, a conservative senator. A very conservative, coalition for moral order senator who is running for re-election."
Arthur nodded at the information, taking it in and listening with quiet attention.
"We told them," Araidne paused to drink a finger of her brandy, "Well, he told them that you were the cultural attaché to France and that Eames was a housewife."
Arthur turned incredulous, "What?"
Ariadne motioned wide with her arms. She pushed down the nervous chuckle and tried to look as serious as she could. She needed to keep hoping that her father would understand. That Eames would understand.
"He had to," Ariadne defended, "His father's the favorite for majority leader come election time."
"I don't care who he is," Arthur returned. The President or even Lady GaGa could be in his house and he still wouldn't care, especially if they were the ones that were causing his flesh and blood to lie about her life.
Arthur began to parse what wasn't being said, "I don't want to be someone else," he said, and it was the quietest thundering of words Ariadne had ever heard. "Do you want me to be someone else?"
At the last question Arthur's voice broke more than he would have preferred it too. Not in twenty years of living had his daughter ever shoved his lifestyle back at him, never once when a school trip had needed chaperones or when her club events had needed volunteers at school had she ever told him he needed to be someone else to be around her.
"No," Araidne said quickly. She set the glass tumbler back on the bar before she sloshed its contents everywhere. "Of course not, and neither does Robert! But his dad, he's, well he's Maurice Fischer, dad."
Arthur raised his arms in a 'so what?' motion, his face showed he was still trying to figure out what the situation was, and figure out the details.
"You don't read the papers," Ariadne allowed herself the nervous chuckle she'd been keeping down. "Of course you don't."
"I keep up with the BBC news feeds all the times, not to mention the arts and leisure section of the New York Times…Variety."
"Dad," Ariadne groaned. She turned back for her brandy, "Reading world news and the theatre section isn't going to keep you current on men like Maurice Fischer."
"What don't I know?" Arthur demanded, "You're not marrying some Nazi are you?"
"No, no, no," Ariadne said tiredly. If her father had been able to guess what she needed this would have been easier, she had planned for this to be easier, ever since Robert had nervously squawked what he had lied about into the phone to her. "He's just conservative, like half of America is conservative."
"Not with what's on cable these days they're not," Arthur said dryly. He crossed the gap between them in three quick steps. He took the tumbler from her hand and placed it one shelf too far out of her reach, as if he were hiding candy from her and she were a child.
"I really want to marry Robert," she said seriously "I need your help."
"Not with this you don't," Arthur replied, turning to pace his way towards the couch.
"You've done it before," Ariadne protested crossly.
"What? Lied about who I am? Not once have I ever sugar coated my life to anyone."
"My first day at Proclus Academy, do you remember what you told me?" the slow burning but long lived temper she'd inherited from Arthur was being lit.
"No," Arthur grit out when it became apparent that she was waiting for an answer.
"When Mrs. Martin asked me what my father did for a living you told me to tell her that my father was a businessman."
All of Arthur's heated fight seemed to vanish from him then. His shoulders slouched backward in surprise and the look of painful memories ran from one side of his face to the other. It wasn't something Arthur had been particularly proud of.
"You were a baby," Arthur protested, much more softly this time "And Mrs. Martin was a small minded idiot. I didn't want you to get hurt, it's different now, you're a woman."
Ariadne knew that her father's biggest vulnerability would always be the lengths he would go to for his daughter, she hated to use that against him. "I can still get hurt."
Ariadne's simple statement had Arthur's eyes knitting together in what would most easily be described as pain, and Ariadne knew that if she really wanted her father to help her convince Robert's family they could get married then she couldn't stop right then. "Dad, it would mean the world to me if you just help me and Robert."
Arthur's arm swung behind him a moment as if he were groping for a chair but he settled it on his hip. "This is crazy," he said hoarsely "I mean what am I supposed to do? Close the club so I can pretend to be some cultural attaché? Whatever the hell that means?"
Ariadne shrugged when Arthur's temper began to return to its former bite and bark.
"What am I supposed to do with Eames?" he demanded of her loudly, "How do you make Eames into a housewife?"
Ariadne knew the appropriate response wasn't 'Add a feather duster' so she took a deep breath before telling him the conclusion she'd come to earlier. "You'd have to send Eames away for a few days. To that place he likes in the Hamptons maybe…"
"Are you insane? You try sending Eames away!"
"We'll never get him past the Fischers," Ariadne argued back, smacking one hand against the other as if her father just wasn't grasping the concept. "We've got to get rid of a few things around here."
"What things?" Arthur gestured wildly to the apartment. It'd been collecting new décor ever since they moved in.
"Like that," Ariadne was gesturing across the large room to the seven foot statue of pure Grecian marble.
"Neptune?" Arthur's tone was disbelieving. Ariadne could name quite a few of the outlandish things and ideas she'd brought into this house but she couldn't remember a single one that made her father react like he was now. "It's a classic."
"And this?" Ariadne raised a brow and jerked a thumb to the painting just over her right shoulder. A mahogany wooded frame had housed the painting in the very same spot since she was ten.
"The Bacon?" and Ariadne thought that maybe her father seemed the most distressed at that. She knew it was a fake, not one of the ones that got sold for eighty some million to prestigious museums, but her father had always had a special adoration for it. "That's art."
"Yeah, well what about that?" Araidne jerked her hand towards a foot tall statue sitting on the end table. Its phallus was longer than it was tall.
Arthur reached out a hand to turn that statue around, so that it faced the wall. The move did nothing to improve the statue's sexual display. Instead it put a particularly pert pair of stone buttocks on display.
Arthur didn't bother to ask if that was better. His fingers were beating a nervous pattern against his hip quicker and quicker every second. His face had taken on a forced, stoic expression.
When Arthur made a move to tuck in the Star of David that was hanging on a slim gold chain around his neck Ariadne tried to proceed as gently as she could. "It's not just one or two things, okay? I mean it's everything," she gestured broadly to the apartment. "We're going to have to tone this down below extreme; we need to make this a little bit like…other people's homes."
"I see," Arthur said slowly, the hand at his hip snapping to a jerky stop. "So we need a total redecoration so that we can look like 'other people'."
In for a penny in for a pound "And, Dad," Ariadne turned so that they were facing one another, carefully avoiding her father's usually welcome gaze. "You're going to have to try to, you know, switch—ah, change your mannerisms a little."
"What exactly are you saying?" Arthur straightened his back.
"I'm saying you need to be a little less obvious."
Arthur's chin jutted out in defense and Araidne hastened to continue "I'm not saying you're all sashaying hips like Bette Midler (that was far more an Eamesian type mannerism Araidne thought) I'm just saying you're a bit, stereotypical, obvious."
"I'm obvious?" Arthur didn't look convinced. He gave into temptation and allowed himself to run an anxious hand through his hair.
"Dad," Ariadne sighed. She lifted a finger to her father's cheek and pressed down and towards his chin. When she lifted the same finger to the white walls an ivory-cream trail was left on the wall.
Arthur braced himself and even though "We just had the walls sponge painted, Ari," wasn't what was on his mind to say it was the first thing that slipped out. That and an errant thought that Eames was not going to like concealer stains on their walls.
A knock on the door from the club entrance announced a presence just before Yusuf strolled in through the door, clipboard in hand.
"I think you should come downstairs," Yusuf said to Arthur. The man seemed to be towards his wit's end, though he did tend to be like that most of the time. "Eames is trying to take the prat's chewing gum away."
What his partner and their hired dancer was doing downstairs wasn't registering on his radar just yet so the quick, snappish "I'll be right down," that he tossed at Yusuf was purely reflexive.
As soon as the door closed Arthur turned to look at Ariadne, wearing probably the hardest look he'd ever worn when dealing with her. His hands were pressed firmly against his side and his back was straight.
"Yes I where foundation," he began, "Yes, I live with a man, and yes, I'm a middle aged fag, but I know who I am, Ari. I've lived twenty years knowing exactly what and who I've wanted in my life. It's been a long time since I've given half a fuck what anyone's thought of me. I'm not going to let some moron of a senator ruin that."
Arthur shook his head slowly, his eyes filling with resolve like steel "Fuck the senator," he muttered viciously, "I don't give a damn what he thinks."
Arthur opened the door, and closed it behind him without another word. It was louder, oddly, than it would have been if he'd stormed from the room.
Ariadne pressed back tears and tore her eyes away from the door with synapses firing cross ways. She wasn't quite sure what to do. She had a catastrophe of a wedding impending, in-laws that she wasn't sure she'd ever like, rent and a job to earn, and schooling to tie up, but the thing that was rocking her the most was for the first time in her life she knew she'd disappointed her father, one of the only two people to ever love her unconditionally.
X-_X-_X
"Still outside the home of Senator Maurice Fischer, the Co-Founder of the Coalition for Moral Order, and as you can see…"
"Awaiting word on Senator Fischer, we're still not sure at this time on whether he is actually home or not—,"
"Senator Fischer! Many wonder if he too has a secret sex life, hiding away from Americans behind a façade of conservative fraud!"
At the side of the gathered media mass a different man stood out from the group. He was portly and ill dressed and his growing stubble and rumpled appearance gave signs of an inattention to personal care. He lounged in his own small area, watching but not reporting like the others. He looked to be waiting for his own special clue.
Later, a casual look around the property told him he may have found it.
Drawn by the sounds of heavy lifting and careless handling the rumpled reporter managed to find himself at the gate entrance to the Fischer's garage. A hired driver, or maybe a beleaguered assistant, was loading suitcases into the trunk. He was doing a thoroughly poor job of it.
The man looked miserable. The reporter grinned and whistled.
"Hey," the reporter called, jerking his head towards the edge of the gate. After a moment of checking the windows in view the driver made his way to the gate, his hands in his pockets.
The reporter couldn't help but be smug when he pulled a fifty out of his wallet and waved it inside the gate bars asking "Where're you driving 'em?" to the other man.
After just one more cautious glance at the house the man pulled a hand out of his pocket and grabbed the money. He grunted: "Greenwich Village, in New York."
The reporter recoiled back on his heels, "Greenwich Village, in New York City?" he questioned incredulously.
"Yeah."
"The conservative co-founder of the Coalition for Moral Order is going to Greenwich Village in New York goddamn City?"
The driver shrugged, scowled, and hurried off before a member of the household could spot him.
The reporter turned back away from the gate, his eyes wide. He wasn't sure whether he had just been hustled fifty dollars or handed the biggest story of his career.
Senator Maurice Fischer, heading to the birthplace of the American gay rights movement; it was unbelievable.
X-_X-_X
The small TV that Maurice had insisted they install in their bedroom (so that he could watch CSPAN into the early morning hours) was on but Margot had been paying only half a mind to it as she packed their luggage. It wasn't until Jay Leno raised his voice louder to address the audience that she paid it any real attention.
"Now folks," the comedian began somberly "I know there've been a lot of tasteless jokes going around this week about Senator Peter Browning…and here's one more!"
Margot shook her head as she wrestled another pack of undershirts into their suitcase. She didn't want Maurice to look paunchy under any of his dress shirts. Maurice was more vocal with his disgust though and made a throaty noise before violently clicking the television off.
"This is unbearable!"
He stood and put his long coat on and Margot turned back to packing the suitcase, composing a rude enough letter to Jay Leno in her head. When she turned back to the dresser, though, it was in time to catch sight of Maurice carelessly wrenching the bedroom window open.
She gasped. "No! Maurice!" She grabbed his coattails and tried to pull him back in the room as he swung a leg over the sill.
"Shush," he waved a hand at her rudely, "Would you just calm yourself? I'm going down the ladder. I'm not facing the bloodsucking press tonight. Tell the chauffeur to come around the back."
"I don't want to go out there alone!" Margot protested hotly.
"You won't be alone, Robert will be with you." Then more vehemently he added "It's not you they're after Margot!"
Robert walked in the room just a moment after. He was still trying to figure out how bad his karma must be that a Senator's sexy death scandal ended up coinciding with his engagement announcement. He spotted his father on the window sill and his eyebrows jumped to his hairline.
"Father!"
"For the love of…shush!" Maurice waved aside the curtains, "I'm just going down the back way. Robert, have some nerve for once."
"Hey!" Margot protested again, holding firmly to his elbow. "I thought you were going to announce Robert's engagement to the Harper girl?"
"Well not before we meet them," Maurice responded tiredly, "What if they change their mind?"
Robert tried not to wince. His guilt was going to form ulcers by the time his and Ariadne's parents finally met. His father disappeared from the window with a halfhearted "I'll meet you in the car."
Robert studiously avoided any direct eye contact with his mother.
Outside, just as Maurice reached the halfway point down the ladder, lighting implements sprang to life and his footing slipped, causing him to yelp and grab the ladder to steady himself. Cameras were already snapping and flashing behind him. Maurice sighed.
"Senator!" one ambitious reporter shouted, "Do you think Senator Browning's death will cost you votes?"
The questions had grown more ludicrous each day since Senator Browning's death and Maurice found himself at a somewhat loss for words as he tried to turn on the ladder and straighten with dignity.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," he began, trying to find a position that could look regal mid-ladder "I am, as are all my colleagues, Republic and Democrat; Liberal and Conservative alike, deeply stunned and saddened at the circumstances surrounding the death of Senator Peter Browning."
Maurice pointedly ignored using Senator Browning's first name alone as he had in the past. It wouldn't do to continue tying himself to the man's name. "My family and I are leaving town for a few days," he continued "For reasons I cannot at this…."
When he trailed off he realized that just ducking the question wouldn't have a desired enough effect and he realized at once where Margot's planning came in. He cleared his through and thanked God that the woman had learned from his long political career "To plan a happy event!" he declared to the news corps below him, "Which may perhaps heal some of the, er, negative, that is to say, bad things that Senator Browning's death has made us all…well, feel."
"Where are you going, Senator Fischer?" this new voice wasn't mixed in with the rest of the crowd and Maurice strained his eyes to see the image of a stodge reporter tucked in the back by the tree line.
"Where?" Maurice stalled for a moment, "To our country home, out to the west. Yes, some quiet introspection."
Cries of "Senator Fischer!" followed him as he jerkily made his way back up the ladder. However he couldn't descend amongst the pack of wolves that had gathered. It wouldn't be good to be described in the news as having had had to sneak out of his own home. It wouldn't look right.
X-_X-_X
Arthur hadn't had a cigarette since the nineties, but he was seriously considering saying to hell with it and bumming one from one of the workers. Whiskey wasn't cutting it.
He was in the club, tucked away at the end of the bar, and was, for the most part, away from the prying eyes of his employees as they hurried around preparing to open for the night. Arthur had been looking at the bar's shiny wood finish for over an hour and still he hadn't been able to process everything that had happened that afternoon.
Every time he'd tell himself to shake it off and think of a solution he'd get sidetracked. One thought would lead to another, and then another, and soon enough he was back to one alarming realization: His daughter was ashamed of him.
It was a foreign concept to him. One of the very first lessons that he and Eames had ever taught to Ariadne was that she should always accept herself, and others, for whom and what they were. No questions asked.
He could still remember the night of her graduation party. They'd closed the club to the public, even though it was a busy summer Saturday, and had allowed Ariadne to invite anyone she wanted. It had seemed like half the school had turned out.
Eames had gone out and bought twenty of what had to be the largest banners Arthur had ever seen. The man had then gone on to hang them all over the club, throwing decoration after decoration up on the walls simply because he thought Ariadne would like them.
There was no way that anyone could have doubted that Ariadne had proud parents that night.
Arthur just hadn't realized that he had to worry about Ariadne not being proud of her parents.
At any rate, the worry was moot at this point. Arthur stood and shoved himself away from the bar. Someone was rehearsing with the Piano in the background, but Arthur couldn't focus on that. His daughter's fiancé and his parents were coming in a day and Arthur had no way to stop it from happening.
Arthur sighed, rubbed at his wrists in frustration, and turned a hard stare on his club. This was the paradise he'd built for himself. Everything from the God-awful patterned walls to the beat up stage floor was his and he'd guarded and protected it since the first day the keys to the doors had been sat in his hands.
And now he was letting his daughter down.
The two things were synonymous in his mind. All his successes, all his accomplishments, they'd all hinged on one main standard: He'd opened a successful business and formed a happy family. Now, Arthur could only wonder if his family had really been a happy family after all.
Unbidden, Arthur's mind wandered down the road of memories until he was sitting in a hospital room with a dark haired infant tucked into him arms.
"I don't want her," the normally vibrant woman who was Ariadne's biological mother had said "I can't have a child right now Arthur, merde, but I can barely take care of myself."
"Ok," Arthur had whispered back. His eyes had never left the newborn's. He had wondered if this little bundled up girl would grow up and look like him. He had wondered if she would like sports, or theater, or maybe she'd be something completely unexpected…
"Arthur," the woman had sobbed, a nurse was loitering at the door "Please, you have to take her. I don't want her, I don't want her…my business, all my dreams, non…"
It had taken Arthur a moment raise his head but when he did he had looked at his one-time lover and leveled a non-negotiable look at her. "If you give her up now you can't ever take her back."
The woman had twisted her body into the sheets, wrapping them around herself. She had nodded, once. "I don't want to be a mother. It's a curse."
Arthur had stood, his eyes had wearily sought out the nurse, but the nurse had only turned her gaze in the opposite direction, acting as if she couldn't hear them.
"Thirty thousand," Arthur had said finally, hugging his two day old child to his chest, "The Company is paying me in advance for a one-year contract, I'll give you thirty thousand of it and then I don't ever want to hear from you again."
When Arthur had stood in that hospital room and told Ariadne's mother his stipulation he hadn't thought that he'd be able to retire from a short but luminescent career on stage and open a popular nightclub. He hadn't expected that when he finally brought Ariadne home a couple days later that Eames would be standing in his new apartment's kitchen, ready to make a commitment larger than the two of them had ever imagined.
Arthur had only stood in that hospital room and thought that he'd give and do anything for the sleepy baby tucked in his arms.
Now, two decades later, he closed his eyes against a well of unwanted moisture and turned to stride towards the back of the club. As he took the stairs two at a time towards the home he had been the happiest in he finally made a decision.
X-_X-_X
Ariadne was fumbling an old model of the Eiffel Tower that she'd had since high school between her hands when she heard the apartment door open and close out in the main room. She sat up straighter on her bed when she heard her father's tired voice call out "Nash?"
She heard some indistinguishable mutterings before her father said "Damn it," and Nash replied with "What? What did I do?"
The model stilled between her hands.
"Nothing. We're re-doing the apartment."
Ariadne sat up in her bed. Had her father really told Nash what she thought he had? This was terrific, to Ariadne at least. Maybe her father really understood what she'd been trying to tell him earlier? She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, slipping her feet into fuzzy purple slippers, courtesy of Eames.
"Oh, this is for the in-laws right?" Nash was saying out in the main room.
"Right," Arthur confirmed, resigned. "We've got to get rid of anything that's over the top. This is priority now."
"Damn, boss, that's a lot."
When Ariadne poked her head out of her doorway her father was pacing Nash like a commander readying troops for battle
"You're going to have to get yourself a proper uniform," he was saying, "I can't afford for everything to go smooth and then have you ruin it over some idiotic detail."
"Like a butler?" Nash's face screwed up and he waved his can of Pine-Sol in the air at Arthur "I'm going to look like a tool."
"Maybe," Arthur acquiesced dismissively, "But you'll look like a tool in a proper uniform."
"Whatever, Don't Ask Don't Tell I suppose."
"We'll start first thing in the morning," Arthur was circling to stand in front of the large, stone Poseidon. Nash was looking down at his own cut off jean shorts in despair.
"I'll get Eames out of the house first thing in the morning…"
"Where'm I supposed to get a uniform?"
"…I'll just tell him that he has to go away for a while."
Neither of the men were listening to one another, and when Nash walked from the main room sighing and saying, "I have so much to do now," Ariadne leaned against the door casing and said, "Dad?"
When Arthur turned to look at her she couldn't help smiling, "Thank you," she said, resting a hand at her heart in an imitation of Eames. Her father's eyes were grim though, and they pressed against her like an accusation.
"Do me a favor, Ari," Arthur said hoarse, "don't talk to me for a while."
Ariadne stepped backwards and closed her door.
X-_X-_X