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scribblinlenoreTitle: The Secret Life of Centaurs
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~6,000
Summary: It is a little known fact that the 2007 contract dispute between the New York Yankees and Alex Rodriguez was resolved not by lawyers or sports agents but by dream thieves.
Warning: If you don’t read RPF, you’ll want to avoid this.
Notes: You don’t have to know or like baseball to read this story, but if you are curious about the details, there is an FAQ at the end. Also, I feel it’s important to say that I make fun of Alex Rodriguez out of affection. Thank you to the fangirls who inspired this story over brunch one day, to everyone who helped me finish it, and to my dearpun for being my beta reader and A-Rod expert.
The Secret Life Of Centaurs
By Lenore
Arthur has spent more than a few hours of his life in the company of big mouthed, weak-minded sons of privilege. It comes with the job. That doesn’t mean he's learned to like it.
“You pay a guy twenty-seven million bucks a year you’d think maybe he’d have a little loyalty.” Hank Steinbrenner tips his head back and blows a self-righteous stream of smoke into the air, the cigar fat and noxious between his fingers.
What is it with the stupidly wealthy and cigars? Arthur will never understand the appeal.
“Indeed,” Eames says sympathetically, because that’s what he does. Tells people what they want to hear.
Calls them darling without fucking meaning it. Arthur derails that train of thought before it can go any farther.
“So I need you to find out for me.” Steinbrenner levels an expectant look at them. “Find out what Rodriguez is planning. Get me a number. I need to know what we’re dealing with. Fuck knows what kind of bullshit that agent of his has put into his head. I need to know how much this is going to cost me.”
Eames nods. “Of course. In turn, we will need—“
“Access, yeah. Rodriguez has an appointment with the team doctor week after next. You’ll be ready by then, right?” Steinbrenner’s beady eyes shine dementedly, making him look like a cross between a third world dictator and something from an inner circle of hell.
Arthur wonders if Damn Yankees is actually a true story.
“Consider it done.” Eames rises to his feet and shakes Steinbrenner’s hand.
Arthur does the same, tamping down the urge to wipe his palm on his trousers afterward. Not that he’d mind being rude, but that’s no way to treat a Zegna suit.
Steinbrenner regards them closely, little piggy eyes squinting, and at last he gives a terse nod, their cue that they’re dismissed. His assistant waits in the outer office to see them out.
“Well done,” Eames says once they’re clear of the building. “You made quite the impression with your surly silence.” The corners of Eames's mouth slant up in amusement.
“This job is ridiculous,” Arthur says, still surly if less silent.
“It’s your national past time, pet.”
Arthur snorts. He likes biathlon himself. Cross-country skiing with rifles, now there’s a sport. If only there were people shooting back, it would be perfect.
“Not your team then?”
Arthur shrugs. He has nothing against the Yankees. He just doesn’t have anything for them either.
“Well, they’re paying us a king’s ransom to help them settle their little contract dispute with their erstwhile third baseman, so we’d best get to it, yeah?”
They stall on a street corner. Eames just flew in that morning, and they haven't had time to discuss the details of how they'll work the job. Arthur offers, “I have a contact. I found us a place where we can set up—“
“Darling,” Eames chides.
Arthur scowls at him. “What?”
“We’ve known each other how long now? Nearly eight years? I’ve seen you drunk at least once—that time in Prague, don’t even try to pretend you weren’t. You’ve shot me in the face on numerous occasions, quite gleefully I might add. How much closer must we be before you stop pretending that New York isn't your home?”
Arthur scowls at this, on general principle, and because Eames would no doubt be shocked if he didn't. Arthur does hate to disappoint expectations. He takes a moment to weigh his options. Never let anyone in the business (except Dom and Mal) know where you live. This is one of Arthur's must strictly observed rules. But then, Eames has been waging a war of attrition against never since the day they met. So many of Arthur's carefully crafted resolutions have already fallen victim to Eames' cat-like persistence.
“Fine," Arthur says at last, "but no leaving cups of tea all over the place.”
"I will treat your home as the castle it is," Eames says, making some effort not to look obnoxiously triumphant.
He has many skills; feigning an absence of smugness is not chief among them. Arthur ignores him as much as humanly possible as he leads the way to the B train. If he has a funny feeling in his stomach knowing that Eames will soon be prowling around his home…well, that’s probably the beginnings of acid reflux. He really should see a doctor about it.
At 103rd Street, they get off the train and walk west toward the river. Eames takes in every detail, narrating the whole way. “Brownstones. Academics. A bit of pretension, but not overtly flashy. I can just imagine you pottering about these streets, nipping in for a quart of milk, stopping for take-away at the corner curry place.” He points at a bodega. “Is that where you buy your coffee in the mornings? Which is your favorite newsstand?”
Arthur has never imagined that the perusal of his neighborhood produce stand could make him feel so bizarrely exposed, but then this is Eames.
When they arrive at his building, Arthur sternly points a finger. “Can you please just behave yourself until we get inside my apartment? I have to live here. I don’t need my neighbors thinking I hang out with freaks.”
Eames mimes ticking a lock and throwing away the key.
This unlikely obedience lasts only until Arthur shuts the apartment door behind them, and then Eames erupts into raptures. “Danish modern. Suits you, although I did sometimes entertain a notion that you might be frightfully traditional in your interior decorating preferences. A riding to the hounds sort of look. Oh, a Redon! Did you steal it? You’ve been holding out on me.”
Arthur heads for the kitchen, leaving Eames to his snooping because there’s no power on earth that’s going to stop him. It will be better for Arthur's concentration just to get it over with. He pulls the tin of Jamaican Blue Mountain out of the refrigerator and starts a pot of coffee. “Pet fish!” Eames exclaims delightedly from the living room and then in the next second, “Ayn Rand, oh darling, really?” Arthur opens a cabinet and rummages around in it and comes up with a box of tea. He puts the kettle on.
“Where are the school sport trophies?” Eames calls out. “I know you have them. Don’t deny it. I stand ready to admire your brilliance at the pole vault.”
“Fuck off,” Arthur calls back cheerfully.
“Perhaps a photo of you in your prom finery then? Did you fancy powder blue? Are there any confessions you need to make about sporting a mullet?”
Arthur doesn’t dignify that. Eames spends another few minutes amusing himself among Arthur’s worldly goods before coming to find him in the kitchen. He strides right up to Arthur, with a knowing, fond grin, stopping barely a foot away. They’ve been in close quarters on many occasions, but somehow Arthur has never quite become immune to the immediacy of Eames’s body. He can’t look anywhere else, and Eames is still smiling, and they’re so near, and for a second Arthur really thinks Eames is going to kiss him. There goes another rule, Arthur thinks, without much regret.
Never kiss Eames went by the wayside several years ago actually, replaced by the flimsier Never kiss Eames again. Arthur consoles himself that this bit of rules-breaking took place in service of a job. Their mark, an accountant who seemed about as interesting as beige paint, proved to be the life of the party at the gay social club he frequented in his free time. Arthur spent what was perhaps the longest three hours of his life doing reconnaissance with Eames, trying to blend in, letting Eames kiss him over and over, slow and soft and lush.
Arthur can't help but wonder if Eames's mouth still feels the way he remembers it.
Eames gets distracted, though, before Arthur can find out. “Is that tea you have there? Is that my favorite tea in fact?”
“It’s the tea they had at the store," Arthur says snippily. Not at all because he's disappointed that Eames didn't kiss him.
“Of course it is.” Eames beams with delight.
“I suppose you’ll want a cup,” Arthur says grudgingly.
“That would be lovely, and seeing as you have the kettle on—” Eames’s eyes actually twinkle.
Not that Arthur cares. It's simply his job to notice things.
They settle in Arthur’s living room to begin their research. Arthur lends Eames his spare laptop so he can do his fair share of the work and opens his Moleskin to a blank page.
Eames takes a long, lusty slurp of his tea. “Absolute perfection.”
Arthur determinedly ignores him, concentrating on his own computer, immersing himself in the archives of the major Seattle, Texas and New York newspapers, the three places where Rodriguez has played during his professional career. He begins to frown halfway through the first article, and his forehead remains creased as he plows through A-Rod’s Seattle and Texas years. He was expecting to have to dig for information. He'd already been mentally cataloging sources: paparazzi, Rodriguez's former girlfriends, cash-strapped relatives who might be willing to share a few family secrets. None of that will be necessary. Rodriguez has apparently never met an opportunity to over-share that he didn't make the most of.
“For a bloke who’s rather good at what he does, these sportswriters don’t seem too keen on him,” Eames observes, frowning at whatever he's reading on his computer.
"Not too keen" is rather a profound understatement. Stray-Rod, A-Hole, and A-Fraud are just a few of the colorful headlines, and these are only from The New York Post. The other papers are less punny, but just as vicious.
“Fuck,” Arthur grumbles. “I really resent having to feel sorry for someone who gets paid twenty-seven million dollars a year to play with a ball.”
“I rather fancy playing with balls myself,” Eames says with a predictably lewd arch of his eyebrow.
Arthur shakes his head. “You did not just say that.”
“I am always vocal in my appreciation for—“ He stops abruptly, his expression going sharp and interested.
Arthur knows that look. He trusts that look. “What?”
“Well, it’s this Derek Jeter bloke, isn’t it? They met, they fell in love, betrayal broke them apart."
"Betrayal broke them apart?"
"You scoff, but their history reads like a tragic romance. They met when they were still tender youths in the minor leagues. Even as they became stars, their attachment remained so strong that when their teams got into a brawl during a game they stood off to one side together not taking part, rather a faux pas according to the unwritten rules of baseball as I understand it. They were all secret smiles and mutual admiration until A-Rod made some rather unfortunate remarks about Jeter in the press. A-Rod, it seems, drove across the entire state of Florida to apologize, but Derek Jeter isn't the unforgiving type. There's been a rift ever since, even now that they play on the same team."
"Rift?" Arthur doesn't roll his eyes, but only because it's beneath his dignity. "This job just gets more and more ridiculous."
Eames nods distractedly, his attention still focused on the computer. "The way the sportswriters go on, you’d think these two were shagging for sure. Or at least had been back in the salad days. I’m rather surprised they haven’t made up one of those silly nicknames for them—JeteRod or some rubbish like that. And then there’s our Mr. Rodriguez, who doesn’t seem to know when to shut it. Did you get to the bit about the sleepovers yet?”
Arthur shakes his head, trying not to feel perturbed that Eames has out-researched him.
This becomes easier when Eames’s eyes light with glee and he actually rubs his hands together. “Allow me to do the honors. The reality is there's been a change in the relationship over 14 years and, hopefully, we can just put it behind us. You go from sleeping over at somebody's house five days a week, and now you don't sleep over. It's just not that big of a deal. Actually, I’d say that’s rather the definition of a big deal."
“He did not say that.”
“He did,” Eames assures him. “And after prefacing it by telling reporters that if they would only stop asking him about Derek Jeter, he’d stop lying to them.”
Arthur continues to stare disbelievingly until Eames, with an air of great indulgence, turns the laptop around so he can see for himself.
“How does someone who’s won three MVPs not know his sports clichés?” Eames looks at him blankly, apparently not a fan of Bull Durham, so Arthur clarifies, “He should have learned by now not to blurt out every embarrassing truth he has.”
“Clearly,” Eames says dryly. “So we’re agreed then. Jeter is the emotional trigger.”
Arthur nods. “And I may have found us a way in.” He angles his computer around for Eames to see. “What do you think about forging this guy?”
Eames leans in to read the article about Yonder Alonso, the young University of Miami player Rodriguez befriended in the off season. “Ah, the boytoy he tries to console himself with. I see the lad has taken up the venerable tradition of sleepovers at chez Rodriguez. Brilliant.” He favors Arthur with a bright, admiring smile.
It takes the rest of the evening to hammer out the remaining details. Arthur spends that time insisting to himself that Eames’s praise means absolutely nothing to him.
Eames takes a quick detour to Miami to spend a few days trailing Yonder Alonso, learning his college-jock mannerisms. Before he goes, Arthur casually throws out, "You should stay here when you come back. It'll make for better time management."
If the offer takes Eames by surprise, he doesn't let it show. "You know how I appreciate your dedication to efficiency, Arthur."
Arthur spends the three days that Eames is gone in no way impatient for his return, and when Eames does come back and drops his bag in Arthur's spare bedroom, Arthur has absolutely no feelings about that except for a vague concern for the white duvet. It's a delicate watered silk, and Eames isn't exactly known for being tidy or careful.
"Miss me?" Eames asks, with a saucy grin, as he digs into the short rib cannelloni Arthur ordered in for dinner.
"Yes, I've been bereft without your messy piles of papers everywhere, the scent of tea hanging in the air, and your scintillating company." Arthur intends it to sound sarcastic, maybe even snide, but it comes out distressingly sincere.
Eames's grin grows wider and more insufferable.
On the day of Rodriguez’s appointment with the team doctor, they arrive at the office hours before A-Rod is due and are promptly hustled away to an empty exam room to wait. A jowly, middle-aged man wearing Armani beneath his lab coat eventually comes to fetch them. The fact that physicians are willing to sell out their patients to strangers with shady intentions could really start to creep Arthur out if he thinks about it too much. From Eames’s wry expression, he shares this opinion.
Rodriguez is already sedated when they get to the exam room, and Arthur and Eames set to work, opening the PASIV and running lines like the well-oiled team they are. In two minutes, all three of them are under. With intel from a source of Eames's, they have recreated Rodriguez's apartment and the recent celebration of his MVP award that was held there.
This guy must really like looking at himself. That’s Arthur’s first thought upon entering the dream. His second is, Oh fuck, he's pathetic. A bank of monitors takes up one wall of the sumptuous, over-blown apartment, showing Rodriguez in all his glory, hitting homeruns and smothering ground balls and stealing bases. Another wall holds the largest mirror Arthur has ever seen, providing the opportunity for self-reflection of the superficial variety from any spot in the room.
The completely empty room.
There is not a projection to be seen anywhere, although Rodriguez’s subconscious should have populated the party with family and friends and adoring groupies trying to get into his pants. Despite his looks, talent and money, it appears that Rodriguez views himself, rather neurotically, as the unpopular kid in class.
Arthur mutters under his breath, “Not going to feel bad for him.”
He takes his place behind the bar, smoothes an imaginary wrinkle from his scarlet caterer’s jacket, and notes with pleasure that the brass buttons shine as if they’ve been polished. It doesn’t take long for Rodriguez to wander his way. Eames has yet to make an appearance, and there is nothing else to do, really, but head for the bar.
“Congratulations, Mr. Rodriguez,” Arthur says, his voice echoing a bit in the emptiness, as he serves up the 20-year-old scotch research has revealed to be a favorite.
Rodriguez nods in thanks, takes a long sip of his drink and lights up the fattest cigar Arthur has ever seen. I will never get the appeal, Arthur is thinking when Rodriguez wraps eager, bow-shaped lips around the thing. The effect is rather different than when Steinbrenner was puffing away. This could qualify as a form of pornography.
"Can I get you anything else?" Arthur asks, as much to fill the silence as anything else, trying not to stare.
Rodriguez lifts his glass and gestures with his cigar. “What more could I ask for?”
There is a sad, lost note that belies the jubilance. Two competing thoughts flash through Arthur's head: Not going to feel sorry for him and Where the fuck is Eames?
Happily, Eames chooses that moment to make his entrance, sauntering up to the bar, beefy and square-jawed and a little dim-looking in his Yonder Alonso guise.
“Hey, Alex,” he says, with an unlikely mix of youthful male bravado and eye-batting coyness. Somehow he manages to make it work. “Congratulations, man.” He leans in, too close for a casual chat, not that Rodriguez seems to mind. “Buy you another one of those?”
Alex nods and smiles, and Eames motions to Arthur for two more. Arthur does not have any desire to slap Rodriguez’s hand away from where it lingers on Eames’s shoulder, not in the least. He pours the drinks and serves them with meticulous professionalism.
The plan is for Eames to slowly bring the conversation around to the contract negotiations, but subtle manipulation proves completely unnecessary. In typical fashion, Alex opens a vein without much prompting. “I really didn’t mean for the announcement about that contract stuff to be made during the World Series. It was all my agent’s idea. A big mistake. And now—I don’t think the Yankees want to deal.“ He rubs the back of his neck, oddly befuddled about his prospects for someone who is the highest paid player in the history of baseball.
Eames nods sympathetically. “Sucks, man. Maybe you could just call Steinbrenner up? You know, talk man-to-man. Give him a number.”
Rodriguez’s eyes go wide, as if the notion of picking up the phone himself is a revelation.
“But, hey, right now we’re celebrating!” Eames bumps shoulders with Alex and tells Arthur, “Two more and keep them coming. We’re way too sober!” Arthur half expects Eames to pump his fist and let out a whoop—he's just that ridiculous.
Rodriguez appears to buy the forgery completely, though. Not a single projection has made an appearance yet.
Arthur turns around to grab glasses and the single malt, and startles when he sees something reflected in the mirror that looks suspiciously like a horse’s tail flicking back and forth. He shuts his eyes for a second, sure it won’t be there when he looks again, but, fuck, it is. Not just a tail, he realizes, but the entire body of a horse where the rest of Alex Rodriguez should be, as if he’s a—Arthur refuses even to think the word.
Just pour the drinks, he tells himself.
When he turns back around, Alex is standing there innocently waiting for his scotch, completely human. Arthur darts a look over his shoulder at the mirror, and, yes, his reflection is still half horse. It is impossible not to reach the obvious conclusion: Alex Rodriguez sees himself as a centaur. This is way, way more than Arthur has ever wanted to know about anyone.
He watches with envy as Eames and A-Rod make short work of the next round of drinks and order another and then another. Arthur could use a drink himself. Eames grows louder and more boisterous by the moment, red-faced and listing into Alex's personal space at every opportunity.
In actual life, Arthur has seen Eames drunk exactly once, on a job a few weeks after his father died, and it was nothing like this. Eames had been so silent and unlike himself, day after day, that Arthur hadn't known what else to do but finally drag him to the hotel bar and ply him with booze. Whatever he'd hoped to accomplish, it hadn't worked. Eames had just grown more tight-lipped and rigid and grim-looking the drunker he got.
Arthur hopes never to see that again, and maybe it shows in his expression, because Eames breaks character, just for a second, to wink when Alex isn’t looking.
"So, are you seeing anybody?" Alex asks, his body language finally a bit more relaxed now that's he had a gallon or so of whisky.
"No," Eames says, leaning in even closer, staring at Alex with big, adoring, fuck-me eyes.
Arthur turns away, pretending to polish glasses with vicious twists of his wrist. Not that he cares if Eames makes a spectacle of himself drooling all over the man. It just doesn't seem entirely necessary or professional, that's all.
Alex doesn't appear to read any invitation into Eames's nearness, and his mood has taken a maudlin turn. "When you do find the right person, make sure you treat them right, okay?" he says wistfully. "Otherwise, you might have all the money and the good looks, a body people would kill for and the kind of God-given talent that only comes along once in a generation, the best of the best of everything, and there's nobody to share it with, you know?"
"Aren’t you married?" Eames reminds him.
"Oh, yeah," Alex says morosely. “I forgot.”
Arthur experiences a deep wave of sympathy for the poor woman. He discreetly turns to check the mirror. The centaur droops in defeat.
Thank God the next phase of the dream soon kicks in. All the TV monitors go white with static, and then the familiar, annoying Emergency Broadcast tone blares loudly from the speakers. The same message scrolls across all the screens in large red letters: Alert: Worldwide environmental threat. Viewers are advised to seek shelter and remain inside.
They argued for a solid hour over the exact wording of the message. Arthur finds the lack of specificity grating, but it's better than the Danger! Death rays! that Eames had begged for. The important thing, Arthur supposes, is that it does the trick. Rodriguez stares at it with large, startled eyes, taking the entirely vague environmental threat with complete seriousness.
“What are we going to do?” Eames asks, actually wringing his hands.
Arthur looks away in disgust. The game plan may call for Eames to play the helpless boytoy, but does he have to be quite so over-the-top about it, hanging all over Rodriguez like a damsel waiting to be rescued?
The text message alert chimes on Rodriguez’s phone, and he checks it in a daze, as if he hardly knows what he’s doing. Arthur left this particular wordsmithing to Eames, a message ostensibly from Jeter: Am safe, u better be 2, see u when it’s over.
“Manly declarations are a subtle art,” Eames had said with a sly smile as he doodled on a pad of paper, fiddling with the wording.
"Spelling words with numerals much less so," Arthur had shot back, ignoring the warm, liquid sensation in the pit of his stomach, determined that it must be his acid reflux acting up again.
The text has the intended effect. Rodriguez lifts his chin with renewed determination, eyes bright, nostrils flaring. “Follow me.”
He leads them down a long corridor with such pristine white walls and carpet that it looks like a near-death experience minus the pool of light.
“In here.” He stops and punches a number into a keypad, and a hidden door slides away to reveal a secret room.
Finally, Arthur thinks. Once they're inside, Eames will distract Alex with more of his disgusting rescue-me routine, and Arthur will surreptitiously search for the number, tucked away in a file drawer or even hiding in plain sight. This is the plan.
It takes only one good look around once they get inside to realize that they are going to need a plan B. The room has the appearance of an art gallery, and the exhibit on display is Rodriguez’s bottomless desire for love and approval—as well as, Arthur suspects, his fear that he will never get it.
The walls are lined with framed photographs of Alex posing with various people, some familiar faces, others not. Arthur goes to take a closer look. A woman with her hair pulled back into a tidy bun, turns out to be Alex’s third grade teacher, Mrs. Henderson. On a plaque next to the photograph is a quote from her: “You had the finest penmanship of any eight-year-old boy I’ve ever had the privilege to teach. I could always count on you to be a good citizen in class.”
An elderly man in a sun visor is identified as “Fan at Spring Training, 2006,” and the quote reads: “Thank you for hitting that foul ball to my grandson. You’re such a considerate young man!”
Next to the photo of Joe Torre is just a terse comment, “It’s good for the team when you hit homeruns,” as if that’s the only nice thing the man had to say about Alex.
Not going to feel sorry for him, Arthur thinks bitterly.
The two most important displays in the room are bathed in spotlights. In the glass case, Arthur finds the World Series ring that Rodriguez hopes one day to win. The painting—well, Arthur needs a moment to let that sink in. It’s done in glittering shades of violet and silver and what appears to be actual gold leaf. Arthur guesses it’s a portrait of Derek Jeter or is supposed to be anyway. That’s definitely Jeter’s face, but the rest of him—
Apparently, Rodriguez views Derek Jeter as the world’s most sparkly unicorn.
"Um," Eames stammers as he looks around. Arthur has rarely, if ever, seen him at a loss for words while in a dream, but, honestly, who wouldn't be under the circumstances?
Alex drifts over to stand in front of the painting, staring at it with open adoration. "Don't tell anyone about this, okay? He—doesn't know."
Arthur feels certain that if he could see Rodriguez’s image reflected in the high gloss of the bare walls the centaur would have a wistful look in his eyes.
"No, no, of course not," Eames hurriedly assures him.
“Yeah,” Arthur agrees faintly. Personally, he plans to erase this entire experience from his memory just as soon as the dream is over, although it will probably take a team of professionals to undo the trauma inflicted upon his aesthetic sensibilities.
"Don't you think—maybe you should tell him?" Eames suggests gently, nodding at the Jeter picture.
Alex just shakes his head sadly.
Why the fuck not? Arthur thinks impatiently. You've got a secret unicorn room in your subconscious! But then he supposes some people just can't let themselves be happy. The notion makes him stop short, and then he presses his lips into a thin, tense line. Why isn't this fucking dream over yet? Arthur vows never to be trapped in anyone's secret unicorn room ever again without the means of offing himself.
The kick does come at last, much to Arthur's relief, and as Edith Piaf's bell-like voice makes an entrance, he sees Eames lean in and whisper something to Alex. Then Arthur is back in the world and extremely happy to be awake. Rodriguez sleeps on peacefully. Without a word, Arthur and Eames quickly disconnect the lines and pack up the PASIV.
Eames settles a hand at the small of Arthur’s back, not pushing him toward the door exactly, but certainly suggesting it in very strong terms. Arthur goes readily, with only a single backward glance. Rodriguez has an athlete’s grace even in sleep, his handsome features all the more striking in stillness, his body long and powerfully built, immaculately dressed in Dunhill trousers and a cashmere sweater that Arthur rather envies.
Who would guess that inside all of that perfection is a neurotic mess with truly execrable taste in art?
"You don't think there really is a secret unicorn room, do you?" Arthur asks as they head down the hallway away from the office, horrified by the prospect.
Eames's mouth tilts up wryly. "If there is, I would wager that it also houses a centaur painting or two."
"You saw it!"
"Thought I was off my head until I caught sight of your expression." Eames smiles, the way soldiers in trenches must look at one another, as if there is no one else in the world who will ever understand.
That's true actually, Arthur realizes. If he has a partner, a comrade in arms, it's Eames. Dom has always been some mix of mentor and nudgy older brother, and Mal is a Platonic ideal made flesh, and everyone else is a colleague or an enemy or some uncomfortable blend of the two. If he truly meant to keep Eames at arms' length—well, he's done a pretty shitty job of it. Honestly, he doesn't even remember why never seemed so important.
You’ve seen that nothing good comes from frustrated longing. Arthur really doesn’t want to end up with a secret unicorn room of his own.
The elevator is thankfully empty when the doors ding open, and Arthur pushes Eames inside, crowding him back against the wall. In the moment before Arthur kisses him, Eames looks startled, like he’s trying to calculate what he might have done to piss Arthur off. At the touch of Arthur’s mouth, he lets out a pleased, surprised sound and kisses back eagerly. His lips are just as warm and soft as Arthur remembers.
“Darling.” Eames strokes his fingers through Arthur’s hair and kisses him again, more luxuriantly. “If I’d known centaurs got you randy, I would have—“
“Do not finish that sentence, Mr. Eames,” Arthur warns, biting at Eames’s lip. “Or this will not end in sex.”
Eames ticks a lock, but he looks so happy that Arthur can't help smiling too. When the elevator doors open, Eames slides an arm around Arthur and they head for the exit. “There is that other matter to settle, of course. I’m a little uncertain how to report what we’ve learned to Mr. Steinbrenner.”
“We’re not telling him what we saw in that dream," Arthur declares adamantly. "We’re never telling anyone. Ever.” It’s not as if anyone would believe them anyway.
“I hope this suggestion won’t offend your sense of professionalism, but should we just make up a number then?”
Arthur has never nodded so emphatically in his life. “Yes. Absolutely. That.”
“What do you think? 250 million dollars over ten years?”
“Make it 275.” Arthur never wants to feel sorry for Alex Rodriguez again.
A cab handily pulls into sight, and Arthur flags it down and bundles Eames inside. He keeps him at arms' length as they drive along, not because he wants to, but because he won't have the strength to restrain himself if Eames gets handsy. Always so practical, darling,, Eames's smile seems to say, and Arthur glares. This only makes Eames smile wider.
There's no more traffic than usual, but Arthur curses every car on the road, and by the time they turn down his block, he's ready to throw open the cab door and drag Eames bodily upstairs. He fumbles the key in the lock of his apartment and scowls at Eames over his shoulder in case he has the temerity to laugh, but Eames just leans in and strings a line of wet kisses along the back of Arthur's neck.
"Darling," he breathes against Arthur's skin.
He sounds very much like he means it. Maybe he always has, and Arthur just couldn't let himself be happy.
Arthur shoves the door open. "Get in here and get your clothes off."
He means to have his way with Eames, right now and often, and it quickly becomes clear that Eames has the very same intentions. While Arthur backs him up against the wall and hems him in and hums under his breath as he works at leaving a mark on Eames's neck, Eames slides his hands down Arthurs back and grabs his ass and sneaks his fingers into Arthur's waistband, dipping beneath his shirt, stroking slow, shivery circles over bare skin.
So they'll have their way with each other. Arthur is fine with that.
It takes an act of self-discipline to make himself step back from Eames, even if it is only so he can drag Eames down the hall to the bedroom.
Eames stops in the doorway and stares reverently. "I've had extremely filthy notions about this bed."
"Yeah?" Arthur says, challenging, as he pushes Eames's jacket off his shoulders. "Are you going to do something about it?"
Eames laughs with delight—fortunately it's long since stopped being annoying that he finds Arthur's competitiveness amusing—and strokes a hand over Arthur's hair. His expression is so fond that Arthur has to kiss him.
They work effortlessly as a team when they're on a job, but they get in each other's way at every turn while trying to get naked. Arthur glares at last, and Eames holds up his hands in surrender, smiling, and lets Arthur do the honors. Arthur has seen Eames naked before, in dreams and out of them, because things happen in their line of work and Eames is nothing if not an exhibitionist. But this is different. Arthur can take his time. He can touch. God.
Eames watches, eyes heavy-lidded, as Arthur puts his hands all over him. "Arthur." It comes out rough and urgent, and says so much more than "darling" ever could. Arthur kisses him again.
He doesn't really remember how they get to the bed, just suddenly they're sprawled there, tangled together, and he's still kissing Eames. That's the thing about long-denied desire—it's disorienting. Arthur can't decide what he wants—or more precisely, what he wants first—because he definitely means to have everything.
Eames is more decisive. He manhandles Arthur over onto his belly and half lies on top of him, holding him down with his weight. "I've wanted this." He starts to kiss down the line of Arthur's spine. "You have no idea."
Arthur can only answer with his body, hips working, back arching. Eames lingers at the dip of Arthur's back, tongue stroking in lazy circles.
"Fuck," Arthur hisses. "Please."
Eames laughs, a gorgeous, filthy sound. He nudges Arthur's thighs open wider and spreads him apart and draws his tongue down Arthur's cleft. Arthur lets out a frantic noise and twists his hips and bucks up, urging him on. Eames sets to work, humming contentedly, and, oh fuck, Arthur has always imagined the things he could do with that mouth, but he had no idea.
He shoves his hips against the mattress and clenches his hands in the pillow, and he's hot all over and shaking, and it's so fucking good. Too good, if that's possible, because he wants Eames to fuck him, but he's not going to last.
Eames's breath comes in increasingly heavy pants that Arthur can feel against his sensitized skin, and he can't shut up, a desperate stream of cursing and begging and Eames's name spilling out of him, and he doesn't even want to shut up, because it's so good, because Eames is unspooling him with that perverse, perfect mouth. He comes against the sheets, hips stuttering, his lungs empty and burning.
Never be selfish in bed. Arthur subscribes to that principle, really he does, but it's hard to uphold it when he barely remembers his own name. He reaches out lazily to get a hand on Eames, but Eames just laugh and flops down next to him. "Really, darling, you think there's anything left to do? I've only wanted to eat out that pert little ass of yours since about two minutes after I met you."
"It took two minutes?" Arthur adopts an offended tone.
Eames laughs and flings his arm across Arthur's waist and nuzzles his neck. "Allow me some dignity, darling."
"Next time you're going to fuck me." It's not a question. Arthur has plans.
He needs a moment to realize that Eames is suddenly grinning at him like a sap because he said "next time." There is an endless supply of smart-ass remarks he could make about this, but he decides to lay his head on Eames's chest instead. Just because it's comfortable.
Eames curves his arm around Arthur's shoulders and strokes his fingers lightly along his arm. Arthur can still feel him smiling.
"There is one thing I've been wondering about," Arthur tells him.
"Mm?"
"What did you say to A-Rod?"
Eames's stroking fingers stop, just for a moment, and then start again. "Only that it's never too late to try to get what you really want."
Arthur props himself up on his elbow. "You, Mr. Eames, are a closet romantic."
Eames smiles, not even trying to deny it. "The man has a secret unicorn room in his subconscious, darling, what else was I to do?"
"Do you think it worked?"
Eames gives a half shrug. "He did seem the suggestible sort. I suppose we'll have to wait to see if there are heated glances in the dugout come spring." His expression takes a mischievous turn. "Speaking of unicorns—"
"I really wish you wouldn't."
"I was simply going to observe that you have the perfect spot for a painting on that wall opposite there."
“Don’t even say it," Arthur warns him.
“I rather think I have something of the unicorn about me.”
“You really, really don’t.” Eames is far too filthy to be a unicorn.
His expression must communicate this idea, because Eames smiles wolfishly.
"We can discuss possible additions to your art collection later." He tumbles Arthur onto his back and hovers over him, eyes bright with challenge, as if determined to show Arthur how very un-unicorn-like he can be.
"Are you going to show me some more of those ideas you had about this bed?"
"That was my plan," Eames says, kissing Arthur's throat. "It may turn into rather a project. There were quite a lot of them."
Arthur strokes his fingers through Eames's hair and pulls him closer, smiling. "We've got time."
Frequently Asked Questions
Q: Were Alex Rodriguez and Derek Jeter once in love?
A: Judge for yourself!
Q: Did betrayal really break them apart? Was there a rift that could only be healed by winning a World Series together?
A: I’m afraid so. Here’s how it started.
Q: But why a centaur?
A: Because a former girlfriend of A-Rod’s claimed that he had not one but two paintings of himself as a centaur in his home. Exactly 0 Yankees fans were surprised to learn this.
Q: Does A-Rod smoke cigars? And is it actually pornographic?
A: Yes and yes.
Q: How do people who don’t know about the whole dream share thing believe that the 2007 contract dispute between the New York Yankees and Alex Rodriguez was resolved?
A: They think that A-Rod called Hank Steinbrenner and negotiated that 275 million dollar deal himself. Eames was right. A-Rod is totally suggestible!
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~6,000
Summary: It is a little known fact that the 2007 contract dispute between the New York Yankees and Alex Rodriguez was resolved not by lawyers or sports agents but by dream thieves.
Warning: If you don’t read RPF, you’ll want to avoid this.
Notes: You don’t have to know or like baseball to read this story, but if you are curious about the details, there is an FAQ at the end. Also, I feel it’s important to say that I make fun of Alex Rodriguez out of affection. Thank you to the fangirls who inspired this story over brunch one day, to everyone who helped me finish it, and to my dear
pun for being my beta reader and A-Rod expert. The Secret Life Of Centaurs
By Lenore
Arthur has spent more than a few hours of his life in the company of big mouthed, weak-minded sons of privilege. It comes with the job. That doesn’t mean he's learned to like it.
“You pay a guy twenty-seven million bucks a year you’d think maybe he’d have a little loyalty.” Hank Steinbrenner tips his head back and blows a self-righteous stream of smoke into the air, the cigar fat and noxious between his fingers.
What is it with the stupidly wealthy and cigars? Arthur will never understand the appeal.
“Indeed,” Eames says sympathetically, because that’s what he does. Tells people what they want to hear.
Calls them darling without fucking meaning it. Arthur derails that train of thought before it can go any farther.
“So I need you to find out for me.” Steinbrenner levels an expectant look at them. “Find out what Rodriguez is planning. Get me a number. I need to know what we’re dealing with. Fuck knows what kind of bullshit that agent of his has put into his head. I need to know how much this is going to cost me.”
Eames nods. “Of course. In turn, we will need—“
“Access, yeah. Rodriguez has an appointment with the team doctor week after next. You’ll be ready by then, right?” Steinbrenner’s beady eyes shine dementedly, making him look like a cross between a third world dictator and something from an inner circle of hell.
Arthur wonders if Damn Yankees is actually a true story.
“Consider it done.” Eames rises to his feet and shakes Steinbrenner’s hand.
Arthur does the same, tamping down the urge to wipe his palm on his trousers afterward. Not that he’d mind being rude, but that’s no way to treat a Zegna suit.
Steinbrenner regards them closely, little piggy eyes squinting, and at last he gives a terse nod, their cue that they’re dismissed. His assistant waits in the outer office to see them out.
“Well done,” Eames says once they’re clear of the building. “You made quite the impression with your surly silence.” The corners of Eames's mouth slant up in amusement.
“This job is ridiculous,” Arthur says, still surly if less silent.
“It’s your national past time, pet.”
Arthur snorts. He likes biathlon himself. Cross-country skiing with rifles, now there’s a sport. If only there were people shooting back, it would be perfect.
“Not your team then?”
Arthur shrugs. He has nothing against the Yankees. He just doesn’t have anything for them either.
“Well, they’re paying us a king’s ransom to help them settle their little contract dispute with their erstwhile third baseman, so we’d best get to it, yeah?”
They stall on a street corner. Eames just flew in that morning, and they haven't had time to discuss the details of how they'll work the job. Arthur offers, “I have a contact. I found us a place where we can set up—“
“Darling,” Eames chides.
Arthur scowls at him. “What?”
“We’ve known each other how long now? Nearly eight years? I’ve seen you drunk at least once—that time in Prague, don’t even try to pretend you weren’t. You’ve shot me in the face on numerous occasions, quite gleefully I might add. How much closer must we be before you stop pretending that New York isn't your home?”
Arthur scowls at this, on general principle, and because Eames would no doubt be shocked if he didn't. Arthur does hate to disappoint expectations. He takes a moment to weigh his options. Never let anyone in the business (except Dom and Mal) know where you live. This is one of Arthur's must strictly observed rules. But then, Eames has been waging a war of attrition against never since the day they met. So many of Arthur's carefully crafted resolutions have already fallen victim to Eames' cat-like persistence.
“Fine," Arthur says at last, "but no leaving cups of tea all over the place.”
"I will treat your home as the castle it is," Eames says, making some effort not to look obnoxiously triumphant.
He has many skills; feigning an absence of smugness is not chief among them. Arthur ignores him as much as humanly possible as he leads the way to the B train. If he has a funny feeling in his stomach knowing that Eames will soon be prowling around his home…well, that’s probably the beginnings of acid reflux. He really should see a doctor about it.
At 103rd Street, they get off the train and walk west toward the river. Eames takes in every detail, narrating the whole way. “Brownstones. Academics. A bit of pretension, but not overtly flashy. I can just imagine you pottering about these streets, nipping in for a quart of milk, stopping for take-away at the corner curry place.” He points at a bodega. “Is that where you buy your coffee in the mornings? Which is your favorite newsstand?”
Arthur has never imagined that the perusal of his neighborhood produce stand could make him feel so bizarrely exposed, but then this is Eames.
When they arrive at his building, Arthur sternly points a finger. “Can you please just behave yourself until we get inside my apartment? I have to live here. I don’t need my neighbors thinking I hang out with freaks.”
Eames mimes ticking a lock and throwing away the key.
This unlikely obedience lasts only until Arthur shuts the apartment door behind them, and then Eames erupts into raptures. “Danish modern. Suits you, although I did sometimes entertain a notion that you might be frightfully traditional in your interior decorating preferences. A riding to the hounds sort of look. Oh, a Redon! Did you steal it? You’ve been holding out on me.”
Arthur heads for the kitchen, leaving Eames to his snooping because there’s no power on earth that’s going to stop him. It will be better for Arthur's concentration just to get it over with. He pulls the tin of Jamaican Blue Mountain out of the refrigerator and starts a pot of coffee. “Pet fish!” Eames exclaims delightedly from the living room and then in the next second, “Ayn Rand, oh darling, really?” Arthur opens a cabinet and rummages around in it and comes up with a box of tea. He puts the kettle on.
“Where are the school sport trophies?” Eames calls out. “I know you have them. Don’t deny it. I stand ready to admire your brilliance at the pole vault.”
“Fuck off,” Arthur calls back cheerfully.
“Perhaps a photo of you in your prom finery then? Did you fancy powder blue? Are there any confessions you need to make about sporting a mullet?”
Arthur doesn’t dignify that. Eames spends another few minutes amusing himself among Arthur’s worldly goods before coming to find him in the kitchen. He strides right up to Arthur, with a knowing, fond grin, stopping barely a foot away. They’ve been in close quarters on many occasions, but somehow Arthur has never quite become immune to the immediacy of Eames’s body. He can’t look anywhere else, and Eames is still smiling, and they’re so near, and for a second Arthur really thinks Eames is going to kiss him. There goes another rule, Arthur thinks, without much regret.
Never kiss Eames went by the wayside several years ago actually, replaced by the flimsier Never kiss Eames again. Arthur consoles himself that this bit of rules-breaking took place in service of a job. Their mark, an accountant who seemed about as interesting as beige paint, proved to be the life of the party at the gay social club he frequented in his free time. Arthur spent what was perhaps the longest three hours of his life doing reconnaissance with Eames, trying to blend in, letting Eames kiss him over and over, slow and soft and lush.
Arthur can't help but wonder if Eames's mouth still feels the way he remembers it.
Eames gets distracted, though, before Arthur can find out. “Is that tea you have there? Is that my favorite tea in fact?”
“It’s the tea they had at the store," Arthur says snippily. Not at all because he's disappointed that Eames didn't kiss him.
“Of course it is.” Eames beams with delight.
“I suppose you’ll want a cup,” Arthur says grudgingly.
“That would be lovely, and seeing as you have the kettle on—” Eames’s eyes actually twinkle.
Not that Arthur cares. It's simply his job to notice things.
They settle in Arthur’s living room to begin their research. Arthur lends Eames his spare laptop so he can do his fair share of the work and opens his Moleskin to a blank page.
Eames takes a long, lusty slurp of his tea. “Absolute perfection.”
Arthur determinedly ignores him, concentrating on his own computer, immersing himself in the archives of the major Seattle, Texas and New York newspapers, the three places where Rodriguez has played during his professional career. He begins to frown halfway through the first article, and his forehead remains creased as he plows through A-Rod’s Seattle and Texas years. He was expecting to have to dig for information. He'd already been mentally cataloging sources: paparazzi, Rodriguez's former girlfriends, cash-strapped relatives who might be willing to share a few family secrets. None of that will be necessary. Rodriguez has apparently never met an opportunity to over-share that he didn't make the most of.
“For a bloke who’s rather good at what he does, these sportswriters don’t seem too keen on him,” Eames observes, frowning at whatever he's reading on his computer.
"Not too keen" is rather a profound understatement. Stray-Rod, A-Hole, and A-Fraud are just a few of the colorful headlines, and these are only from The New York Post. The other papers are less punny, but just as vicious.
“Fuck,” Arthur grumbles. “I really resent having to feel sorry for someone who gets paid twenty-seven million dollars a year to play with a ball.”
“I rather fancy playing with balls myself,” Eames says with a predictably lewd arch of his eyebrow.
Arthur shakes his head. “You did not just say that.”
“I am always vocal in my appreciation for—“ He stops abruptly, his expression going sharp and interested.
Arthur knows that look. He trusts that look. “What?”
“Well, it’s this Derek Jeter bloke, isn’t it? They met, they fell in love, betrayal broke them apart."
"Betrayal broke them apart?"
"You scoff, but their history reads like a tragic romance. They met when they were still tender youths in the minor leagues. Even as they became stars, their attachment remained so strong that when their teams got into a brawl during a game they stood off to one side together not taking part, rather a faux pas according to the unwritten rules of baseball as I understand it. They were all secret smiles and mutual admiration until A-Rod made some rather unfortunate remarks about Jeter in the press. A-Rod, it seems, drove across the entire state of Florida to apologize, but Derek Jeter isn't the unforgiving type. There's been a rift ever since, even now that they play on the same team."
"Rift?" Arthur doesn't roll his eyes, but only because it's beneath his dignity. "This job just gets more and more ridiculous."
Eames nods distractedly, his attention still focused on the computer. "The way the sportswriters go on, you’d think these two were shagging for sure. Or at least had been back in the salad days. I’m rather surprised they haven’t made up one of those silly nicknames for them—JeteRod or some rubbish like that. And then there’s our Mr. Rodriguez, who doesn’t seem to know when to shut it. Did you get to the bit about the sleepovers yet?”
Arthur shakes his head, trying not to feel perturbed that Eames has out-researched him.
This becomes easier when Eames’s eyes light with glee and he actually rubs his hands together. “Allow me to do the honors. The reality is there's been a change in the relationship over 14 years and, hopefully, we can just put it behind us. You go from sleeping over at somebody's house five days a week, and now you don't sleep over. It's just not that big of a deal. Actually, I’d say that’s rather the definition of a big deal."
“He did not say that.”
“He did,” Eames assures him. “And after prefacing it by telling reporters that if they would only stop asking him about Derek Jeter, he’d stop lying to them.”
Arthur continues to stare disbelievingly until Eames, with an air of great indulgence, turns the laptop around so he can see for himself.
“How does someone who’s won three MVPs not know his sports clichés?” Eames looks at him blankly, apparently not a fan of Bull Durham, so Arthur clarifies, “He should have learned by now not to blurt out every embarrassing truth he has.”
“Clearly,” Eames says dryly. “So we’re agreed then. Jeter is the emotional trigger.”
Arthur nods. “And I may have found us a way in.” He angles his computer around for Eames to see. “What do you think about forging this guy?”
Eames leans in to read the article about Yonder Alonso, the young University of Miami player Rodriguez befriended in the off season. “Ah, the boytoy he tries to console himself with. I see the lad has taken up the venerable tradition of sleepovers at chez Rodriguez. Brilliant.” He favors Arthur with a bright, admiring smile.
It takes the rest of the evening to hammer out the remaining details. Arthur spends that time insisting to himself that Eames’s praise means absolutely nothing to him.
Eames takes a quick detour to Miami to spend a few days trailing Yonder Alonso, learning his college-jock mannerisms. Before he goes, Arthur casually throws out, "You should stay here when you come back. It'll make for better time management."
If the offer takes Eames by surprise, he doesn't let it show. "You know how I appreciate your dedication to efficiency, Arthur."
Arthur spends the three days that Eames is gone in no way impatient for his return, and when Eames does come back and drops his bag in Arthur's spare bedroom, Arthur has absolutely no feelings about that except for a vague concern for the white duvet. It's a delicate watered silk, and Eames isn't exactly known for being tidy or careful.
"Miss me?" Eames asks, with a saucy grin, as he digs into the short rib cannelloni Arthur ordered in for dinner.
"Yes, I've been bereft without your messy piles of papers everywhere, the scent of tea hanging in the air, and your scintillating company." Arthur intends it to sound sarcastic, maybe even snide, but it comes out distressingly sincere.
Eames's grin grows wider and more insufferable.
On the day of Rodriguez’s appointment with the team doctor, they arrive at the office hours before A-Rod is due and are promptly hustled away to an empty exam room to wait. A jowly, middle-aged man wearing Armani beneath his lab coat eventually comes to fetch them. The fact that physicians are willing to sell out their patients to strangers with shady intentions could really start to creep Arthur out if he thinks about it too much. From Eames’s wry expression, he shares this opinion.
Rodriguez is already sedated when they get to the exam room, and Arthur and Eames set to work, opening the PASIV and running lines like the well-oiled team they are. In two minutes, all three of them are under. With intel from a source of Eames's, they have recreated Rodriguez's apartment and the recent celebration of his MVP award that was held there.
This guy must really like looking at himself. That’s Arthur’s first thought upon entering the dream. His second is, Oh fuck, he's pathetic. A bank of monitors takes up one wall of the sumptuous, over-blown apartment, showing Rodriguez in all his glory, hitting homeruns and smothering ground balls and stealing bases. Another wall holds the largest mirror Arthur has ever seen, providing the opportunity for self-reflection of the superficial variety from any spot in the room.
The completely empty room.
There is not a projection to be seen anywhere, although Rodriguez’s subconscious should have populated the party with family and friends and adoring groupies trying to get into his pants. Despite his looks, talent and money, it appears that Rodriguez views himself, rather neurotically, as the unpopular kid in class.
Arthur mutters under his breath, “Not going to feel bad for him.”
He takes his place behind the bar, smoothes an imaginary wrinkle from his scarlet caterer’s jacket, and notes with pleasure that the brass buttons shine as if they’ve been polished. It doesn’t take long for Rodriguez to wander his way. Eames has yet to make an appearance, and there is nothing else to do, really, but head for the bar.
“Congratulations, Mr. Rodriguez,” Arthur says, his voice echoing a bit in the emptiness, as he serves up the 20-year-old scotch research has revealed to be a favorite.
Rodriguez nods in thanks, takes a long sip of his drink and lights up the fattest cigar Arthur has ever seen. I will never get the appeal, Arthur is thinking when Rodriguez wraps eager, bow-shaped lips around the thing. The effect is rather different than when Steinbrenner was puffing away. This could qualify as a form of pornography.
"Can I get you anything else?" Arthur asks, as much to fill the silence as anything else, trying not to stare.
Rodriguez lifts his glass and gestures with his cigar. “What more could I ask for?”
There is a sad, lost note that belies the jubilance. Two competing thoughts flash through Arthur's head: Not going to feel sorry for him and Where the fuck is Eames?
Happily, Eames chooses that moment to make his entrance, sauntering up to the bar, beefy and square-jawed and a little dim-looking in his Yonder Alonso guise.
“Hey, Alex,” he says, with an unlikely mix of youthful male bravado and eye-batting coyness. Somehow he manages to make it work. “Congratulations, man.” He leans in, too close for a casual chat, not that Rodriguez seems to mind. “Buy you another one of those?”
Alex nods and smiles, and Eames motions to Arthur for two more. Arthur does not have any desire to slap Rodriguez’s hand away from where it lingers on Eames’s shoulder, not in the least. He pours the drinks and serves them with meticulous professionalism.
The plan is for Eames to slowly bring the conversation around to the contract negotiations, but subtle manipulation proves completely unnecessary. In typical fashion, Alex opens a vein without much prompting. “I really didn’t mean for the announcement about that contract stuff to be made during the World Series. It was all my agent’s idea. A big mistake. And now—I don’t think the Yankees want to deal.“ He rubs the back of his neck, oddly befuddled about his prospects for someone who is the highest paid player in the history of baseball.
Eames nods sympathetically. “Sucks, man. Maybe you could just call Steinbrenner up? You know, talk man-to-man. Give him a number.”
Rodriguez’s eyes go wide, as if the notion of picking up the phone himself is a revelation.
“But, hey, right now we’re celebrating!” Eames bumps shoulders with Alex and tells Arthur, “Two more and keep them coming. We’re way too sober!” Arthur half expects Eames to pump his fist and let out a whoop—he's just that ridiculous.
Rodriguez appears to buy the forgery completely, though. Not a single projection has made an appearance yet.
Arthur turns around to grab glasses and the single malt, and startles when he sees something reflected in the mirror that looks suspiciously like a horse’s tail flicking back and forth. He shuts his eyes for a second, sure it won’t be there when he looks again, but, fuck, it is. Not just a tail, he realizes, but the entire body of a horse where the rest of Alex Rodriguez should be, as if he’s a—Arthur refuses even to think the word.
Just pour the drinks, he tells himself.
When he turns back around, Alex is standing there innocently waiting for his scotch, completely human. Arthur darts a look over his shoulder at the mirror, and, yes, his reflection is still half horse. It is impossible not to reach the obvious conclusion: Alex Rodriguez sees himself as a centaur. This is way, way more than Arthur has ever wanted to know about anyone.
He watches with envy as Eames and A-Rod make short work of the next round of drinks and order another and then another. Arthur could use a drink himself. Eames grows louder and more boisterous by the moment, red-faced and listing into Alex's personal space at every opportunity.
In actual life, Arthur has seen Eames drunk exactly once, on a job a few weeks after his father died, and it was nothing like this. Eames had been so silent and unlike himself, day after day, that Arthur hadn't known what else to do but finally drag him to the hotel bar and ply him with booze. Whatever he'd hoped to accomplish, it hadn't worked. Eames had just grown more tight-lipped and rigid and grim-looking the drunker he got.
Arthur hopes never to see that again, and maybe it shows in his expression, because Eames breaks character, just for a second, to wink when Alex isn’t looking.
"So, are you seeing anybody?" Alex asks, his body language finally a bit more relaxed now that's he had a gallon or so of whisky.
"No," Eames says, leaning in even closer, staring at Alex with big, adoring, fuck-me eyes.
Arthur turns away, pretending to polish glasses with vicious twists of his wrist. Not that he cares if Eames makes a spectacle of himself drooling all over the man. It just doesn't seem entirely necessary or professional, that's all.
Alex doesn't appear to read any invitation into Eames's nearness, and his mood has taken a maudlin turn. "When you do find the right person, make sure you treat them right, okay?" he says wistfully. "Otherwise, you might have all the money and the good looks, a body people would kill for and the kind of God-given talent that only comes along once in a generation, the best of the best of everything, and there's nobody to share it with, you know?"
"Aren’t you married?" Eames reminds him.
"Oh, yeah," Alex says morosely. “I forgot.”
Arthur experiences a deep wave of sympathy for the poor woman. He discreetly turns to check the mirror. The centaur droops in defeat.
Thank God the next phase of the dream soon kicks in. All the TV monitors go white with static, and then the familiar, annoying Emergency Broadcast tone blares loudly from the speakers. The same message scrolls across all the screens in large red letters: Alert: Worldwide environmental threat. Viewers are advised to seek shelter and remain inside.
They argued for a solid hour over the exact wording of the message. Arthur finds the lack of specificity grating, but it's better than the Danger! Death rays! that Eames had begged for. The important thing, Arthur supposes, is that it does the trick. Rodriguez stares at it with large, startled eyes, taking the entirely vague environmental threat with complete seriousness.
“What are we going to do?” Eames asks, actually wringing his hands.
Arthur looks away in disgust. The game plan may call for Eames to play the helpless boytoy, but does he have to be quite so over-the-top about it, hanging all over Rodriguez like a damsel waiting to be rescued?
The text message alert chimes on Rodriguez’s phone, and he checks it in a daze, as if he hardly knows what he’s doing. Arthur left this particular wordsmithing to Eames, a message ostensibly from Jeter: Am safe, u better be 2, see u when it’s over.
“Manly declarations are a subtle art,” Eames had said with a sly smile as he doodled on a pad of paper, fiddling with the wording.
"Spelling words with numerals much less so," Arthur had shot back, ignoring the warm, liquid sensation in the pit of his stomach, determined that it must be his acid reflux acting up again.
The text has the intended effect. Rodriguez lifts his chin with renewed determination, eyes bright, nostrils flaring. “Follow me.”
He leads them down a long corridor with such pristine white walls and carpet that it looks like a near-death experience minus the pool of light.
“In here.” He stops and punches a number into a keypad, and a hidden door slides away to reveal a secret room.
Finally, Arthur thinks. Once they're inside, Eames will distract Alex with more of his disgusting rescue-me routine, and Arthur will surreptitiously search for the number, tucked away in a file drawer or even hiding in plain sight. This is the plan.
It takes only one good look around once they get inside to realize that they are going to need a plan B. The room has the appearance of an art gallery, and the exhibit on display is Rodriguez’s bottomless desire for love and approval—as well as, Arthur suspects, his fear that he will never get it.
The walls are lined with framed photographs of Alex posing with various people, some familiar faces, others not. Arthur goes to take a closer look. A woman with her hair pulled back into a tidy bun, turns out to be Alex’s third grade teacher, Mrs. Henderson. On a plaque next to the photograph is a quote from her: “You had the finest penmanship of any eight-year-old boy I’ve ever had the privilege to teach. I could always count on you to be a good citizen in class.”
An elderly man in a sun visor is identified as “Fan at Spring Training, 2006,” and the quote reads: “Thank you for hitting that foul ball to my grandson. You’re such a considerate young man!”
Next to the photo of Joe Torre is just a terse comment, “It’s good for the team when you hit homeruns,” as if that’s the only nice thing the man had to say about Alex.
Not going to feel sorry for him, Arthur thinks bitterly.
The two most important displays in the room are bathed in spotlights. In the glass case, Arthur finds the World Series ring that Rodriguez hopes one day to win. The painting—well, Arthur needs a moment to let that sink in. It’s done in glittering shades of violet and silver and what appears to be actual gold leaf. Arthur guesses it’s a portrait of Derek Jeter or is supposed to be anyway. That’s definitely Jeter’s face, but the rest of him—
Apparently, Rodriguez views Derek Jeter as the world’s most sparkly unicorn.
"Um," Eames stammers as he looks around. Arthur has rarely, if ever, seen him at a loss for words while in a dream, but, honestly, who wouldn't be under the circumstances?
Alex drifts over to stand in front of the painting, staring at it with open adoration. "Don't tell anyone about this, okay? He—doesn't know."
Arthur feels certain that if he could see Rodriguez’s image reflected in the high gloss of the bare walls the centaur would have a wistful look in his eyes.
"No, no, of course not," Eames hurriedly assures him.
“Yeah,” Arthur agrees faintly. Personally, he plans to erase this entire experience from his memory just as soon as the dream is over, although it will probably take a team of professionals to undo the trauma inflicted upon his aesthetic sensibilities.
"Don't you think—maybe you should tell him?" Eames suggests gently, nodding at the Jeter picture.
Alex just shakes his head sadly.
Why the fuck not? Arthur thinks impatiently. You've got a secret unicorn room in your subconscious! But then he supposes some people just can't let themselves be happy. The notion makes him stop short, and then he presses his lips into a thin, tense line. Why isn't this fucking dream over yet? Arthur vows never to be trapped in anyone's secret unicorn room ever again without the means of offing himself.
The kick does come at last, much to Arthur's relief, and as Edith Piaf's bell-like voice makes an entrance, he sees Eames lean in and whisper something to Alex. Then Arthur is back in the world and extremely happy to be awake. Rodriguez sleeps on peacefully. Without a word, Arthur and Eames quickly disconnect the lines and pack up the PASIV.
Eames settles a hand at the small of Arthur’s back, not pushing him toward the door exactly, but certainly suggesting it in very strong terms. Arthur goes readily, with only a single backward glance. Rodriguez has an athlete’s grace even in sleep, his handsome features all the more striking in stillness, his body long and powerfully built, immaculately dressed in Dunhill trousers and a cashmere sweater that Arthur rather envies.
Who would guess that inside all of that perfection is a neurotic mess with truly execrable taste in art?
"You don't think there really is a secret unicorn room, do you?" Arthur asks as they head down the hallway away from the office, horrified by the prospect.
Eames's mouth tilts up wryly. "If there is, I would wager that it also houses a centaur painting or two."
"You saw it!"
"Thought I was off my head until I caught sight of your expression." Eames smiles, the way soldiers in trenches must look at one another, as if there is no one else in the world who will ever understand.
That's true actually, Arthur realizes. If he has a partner, a comrade in arms, it's Eames. Dom has always been some mix of mentor and nudgy older brother, and Mal is a Platonic ideal made flesh, and everyone else is a colleague or an enemy or some uncomfortable blend of the two. If he truly meant to keep Eames at arms' length—well, he's done a pretty shitty job of it. Honestly, he doesn't even remember why never seemed so important.
You’ve seen that nothing good comes from frustrated longing. Arthur really doesn’t want to end up with a secret unicorn room of his own.
The elevator is thankfully empty when the doors ding open, and Arthur pushes Eames inside, crowding him back against the wall. In the moment before Arthur kisses him, Eames looks startled, like he’s trying to calculate what he might have done to piss Arthur off. At the touch of Arthur’s mouth, he lets out a pleased, surprised sound and kisses back eagerly. His lips are just as warm and soft as Arthur remembers.
“Darling.” Eames strokes his fingers through Arthur’s hair and kisses him again, more luxuriantly. “If I’d known centaurs got you randy, I would have—“
“Do not finish that sentence, Mr. Eames,” Arthur warns, biting at Eames’s lip. “Or this will not end in sex.”
Eames ticks a lock, but he looks so happy that Arthur can't help smiling too. When the elevator doors open, Eames slides an arm around Arthur and they head for the exit. “There is that other matter to settle, of course. I’m a little uncertain how to report what we’ve learned to Mr. Steinbrenner.”
“We’re not telling him what we saw in that dream," Arthur declares adamantly. "We’re never telling anyone. Ever.” It’s not as if anyone would believe them anyway.
“I hope this suggestion won’t offend your sense of professionalism, but should we just make up a number then?”
Arthur has never nodded so emphatically in his life. “Yes. Absolutely. That.”
“What do you think? 250 million dollars over ten years?”
“Make it 275.” Arthur never wants to feel sorry for Alex Rodriguez again.
A cab handily pulls into sight, and Arthur flags it down and bundles Eames inside. He keeps him at arms' length as they drive along, not because he wants to, but because he won't have the strength to restrain himself if Eames gets handsy. Always so practical, darling,, Eames's smile seems to say, and Arthur glares. This only makes Eames smile wider.
There's no more traffic than usual, but Arthur curses every car on the road, and by the time they turn down his block, he's ready to throw open the cab door and drag Eames bodily upstairs. He fumbles the key in the lock of his apartment and scowls at Eames over his shoulder in case he has the temerity to laugh, but Eames just leans in and strings a line of wet kisses along the back of Arthur's neck.
"Darling," he breathes against Arthur's skin.
He sounds very much like he means it. Maybe he always has, and Arthur just couldn't let himself be happy.
Arthur shoves the door open. "Get in here and get your clothes off."
He means to have his way with Eames, right now and often, and it quickly becomes clear that Eames has the very same intentions. While Arthur backs him up against the wall and hems him in and hums under his breath as he works at leaving a mark on Eames's neck, Eames slides his hands down Arthurs back and grabs his ass and sneaks his fingers into Arthur's waistband, dipping beneath his shirt, stroking slow, shivery circles over bare skin.
So they'll have their way with each other. Arthur is fine with that.
It takes an act of self-discipline to make himself step back from Eames, even if it is only so he can drag Eames down the hall to the bedroom.
Eames stops in the doorway and stares reverently. "I've had extremely filthy notions about this bed."
"Yeah?" Arthur says, challenging, as he pushes Eames's jacket off his shoulders. "Are you going to do something about it?"
Eames laughs with delight—fortunately it's long since stopped being annoying that he finds Arthur's competitiveness amusing—and strokes a hand over Arthur's hair. His expression is so fond that Arthur has to kiss him.
They work effortlessly as a team when they're on a job, but they get in each other's way at every turn while trying to get naked. Arthur glares at last, and Eames holds up his hands in surrender, smiling, and lets Arthur do the honors. Arthur has seen Eames naked before, in dreams and out of them, because things happen in their line of work and Eames is nothing if not an exhibitionist. But this is different. Arthur can take his time. He can touch. God.
Eames watches, eyes heavy-lidded, as Arthur puts his hands all over him. "Arthur." It comes out rough and urgent, and says so much more than "darling" ever could. Arthur kisses him again.
He doesn't really remember how they get to the bed, just suddenly they're sprawled there, tangled together, and he's still kissing Eames. That's the thing about long-denied desire—it's disorienting. Arthur can't decide what he wants—or more precisely, what he wants first—because he definitely means to have everything.
Eames is more decisive. He manhandles Arthur over onto his belly and half lies on top of him, holding him down with his weight. "I've wanted this." He starts to kiss down the line of Arthur's spine. "You have no idea."
Arthur can only answer with his body, hips working, back arching. Eames lingers at the dip of Arthur's back, tongue stroking in lazy circles.
"Fuck," Arthur hisses. "Please."
Eames laughs, a gorgeous, filthy sound. He nudges Arthur's thighs open wider and spreads him apart and draws his tongue down Arthur's cleft. Arthur lets out a frantic noise and twists his hips and bucks up, urging him on. Eames sets to work, humming contentedly, and, oh fuck, Arthur has always imagined the things he could do with that mouth, but he had no idea.
He shoves his hips against the mattress and clenches his hands in the pillow, and he's hot all over and shaking, and it's so fucking good. Too good, if that's possible, because he wants Eames to fuck him, but he's not going to last.
Eames's breath comes in increasingly heavy pants that Arthur can feel against his sensitized skin, and he can't shut up, a desperate stream of cursing and begging and Eames's name spilling out of him, and he doesn't even want to shut up, because it's so good, because Eames is unspooling him with that perverse, perfect mouth. He comes against the sheets, hips stuttering, his lungs empty and burning.
Never be selfish in bed. Arthur subscribes to that principle, really he does, but it's hard to uphold it when he barely remembers his own name. He reaches out lazily to get a hand on Eames, but Eames just laugh and flops down next to him. "Really, darling, you think there's anything left to do? I've only wanted to eat out that pert little ass of yours since about two minutes after I met you."
"It took two minutes?" Arthur adopts an offended tone.
Eames laughs and flings his arm across Arthur's waist and nuzzles his neck. "Allow me some dignity, darling."
"Next time you're going to fuck me." It's not a question. Arthur has plans.
He needs a moment to realize that Eames is suddenly grinning at him like a sap because he said "next time." There is an endless supply of smart-ass remarks he could make about this, but he decides to lay his head on Eames's chest instead. Just because it's comfortable.
Eames curves his arm around Arthur's shoulders and strokes his fingers lightly along his arm. Arthur can still feel him smiling.
"There is one thing I've been wondering about," Arthur tells him.
"Mm?"
"What did you say to A-Rod?"
Eames's stroking fingers stop, just for a moment, and then start again. "Only that it's never too late to try to get what you really want."
Arthur props himself up on his elbow. "You, Mr. Eames, are a closet romantic."
Eames smiles, not even trying to deny it. "The man has a secret unicorn room in his subconscious, darling, what else was I to do?"
"Do you think it worked?"
Eames gives a half shrug. "He did seem the suggestible sort. I suppose we'll have to wait to see if there are heated glances in the dugout come spring." His expression takes a mischievous turn. "Speaking of unicorns—"
"I really wish you wouldn't."
"I was simply going to observe that you have the perfect spot for a painting on that wall opposite there."
“Don’t even say it," Arthur warns him.
“I rather think I have something of the unicorn about me.”
“You really, really don’t.” Eames is far too filthy to be a unicorn.
His expression must communicate this idea, because Eames smiles wolfishly.
"We can discuss possible additions to your art collection later." He tumbles Arthur onto his back and hovers over him, eyes bright with challenge, as if determined to show Arthur how very un-unicorn-like he can be.
"Are you going to show me some more of those ideas you had about this bed?"
"That was my plan," Eames says, kissing Arthur's throat. "It may turn into rather a project. There were quite a lot of them."
Arthur strokes his fingers through Eames's hair and pulls him closer, smiling. "We've got time."
Frequently Asked Questions
Q: Were Alex Rodriguez and Derek Jeter once in love?
A: Judge for yourself!
Q: Did betrayal really break them apart? Was there a rift that could only be healed by winning a World Series together?
A: I’m afraid so. Here’s how it started.
Q: But why a centaur?
A: Because a former girlfriend of A-Rod’s claimed that he had not one but two paintings of himself as a centaur in his home. Exactly 0 Yankees fans were surprised to learn this.
Q: Does A-Rod smoke cigars? And is it actually pornographic?
A: Yes and yes.
Q: How do people who don’t know about the whole dream share thing believe that the 2007 contract dispute between the New York Yankees and Alex Rodriguez was resolved?
A: They think that A-Rod called Hank Steinbrenner and negotiated that 275 million dollar deal himself. Eames was right. A-Rod is totally suggestible!
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Date: 2012-02-16 01:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-19 04:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-16 04:47 pm (UTC)<333333333333333333333333
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Date: 2012-02-19 04:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-17 06:17 am (UTC)I think your Arthur is my favourite Arthur ever. Ever!
I know nothing of sports or ARod but I swaer, your Arthur and Eames were so lovely I had to keep reading to the end.
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Date: 2012-02-19 04:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-21 07:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-24 11:20 pm (UTC)This is hilarious and more so from Arthu's sober point of view.
Biathlon!
All I know of baseball I know from AUs!