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Eames can hear Arthur outside on the terrace, launching into another cocktail party conversation version of their life together. It's so rehearsed by now, having been repeated on most of the major talk shows, daytime and evening, a few red carpet interviews, and a cover story in Vanity Fair. The price of fame Eames thinks is having your life parsed into sound bites and anecdotes for the masses. He doesn't exactly mind, but he'd much rather remember the truth of lazy mornings in bed bickering over naming rights and who said what stupid thing in front of the baby this time until they are distracted enough to put their mouths to better uses than arguing.
With such delicious thoughts to keep him company, suddenly being put on hold while his lawyers, his hopefully-soon-to-be director, and several associate producers haggle things out on the other end of the phone isn't such a hardship.
"...he fell in love with my dog first. Eventually I changed his focus."
Truthfully, it WAS the dog that caught Eames' eye first.
So Eames tucks the phone more firmly into the crook of his neck, smiles, and watches through the open doors as Arthur's expressive hands and lovely voice tell the story.
Eames knows it’s only part of the story anyway. And is it his fault if he's always had a weakness for dachshunds?
The fact that there had been a tall, slim, dark haired man attached to the dog's leash was just an especially nice incidental bonus.
So if he'd started taking the long way around to the play park along the path that bordered the dog park, then that was because he'd been thinking about getting a dog for a while now. For Twyla. Clearly.
"Lets go look at the puppies," he'd said to Twyla as he'd buttoned up her coat and tried to get her to wear a hat. The hat never lasted long, but Eames did try. And Twyla would bounce in her stroller and wave her arms and call "puppers!!" as they passed the dog park.
Eames had for weeks been watching as an adorable fat brown dachshund puppy was trained to sit, heel, lay down and roll over. He was full of admiration for the beauty and the precision of man and animal working together. And the man was so patient, so sure, so in control. It was entrancing. And then one lucky day the dog dashed away, distracted by a squirrel or something and its leash got tangled in the wheels of Eames's stroller. And the dog's owner looked up at him when all was untangled and blurted out, "Oh my god, you're HIM. I didn't recognize you with hair."
And then the man blushed, and Eames laughed, and there were apologies on both sides after the dog started trying to chew on the tiny duck printed Wellington boots the baby in the stroller Eames is pushing was wearing.
"God, this is surreal. I've seen Lambeth Walk at least half a dozen times. You were robbed of that Oscar."
"It's political innit," Eames sighed. "The Academy, being what they are, is hardly going to fling awards at me when I'm an openly gay man who stars in action films. It's just not on. But thank you. Truthfully, I was a right mess during the filming what with ... well ... it’s a long story."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to ..."
"No. It's fine. Not a problem, really. It was a pleasure to meet you..."
"Arthur. It's Arthur."
"The pleasure is all mine Arthur. Perhaps we'll see you around the park."
"I'd ... We'd like that," he says and Eames watched them as they walk away.
"That is a cute dog," he thought, and busied himself trying for the 20th time that day to get his daughter to wear her hat.
"I taught her her first swear words. I'm still making it up to Eames over that."
..."Nash, we needed those permits! A delay now is going to cost us months of work and a substantial amount of money you fucking asshole!"
Arthur looks like he wants to punch someone.
"Mate, could you maybe watch your language?" Eames says, nodding towards the stroller a few feet away.
Twyla happily looks up at the two men, claps her hands and giggles as she shouts "'king 'hole!"
Suddenly Arthur is not the only one who looks as if he'd like to punch someone.
"For the first six months we knew each other, my dog had two names. Well three if you count his official breed registered name."
They had run into each other in front of Starbucks, almost literally. Eames' attention had been on the dog. The dog's attention had been on the cookie Twyla had been holding. Arthur was nobly splitting his attention between his naughty dog, a crying now cookie-less toddler, and well, Eames' ink peeking out from the collar of his off white Henley.
"Penrose! Drop it!"
"Penrose?" Eames had said, looking up from where he was crouched down cradling the dachshund's face in his hands, and scratching behind its ears. "How could you do that to this lovely thing?"
"I'm an architect. I LIKE Penrose. Also his officially registered breed name is Paradox and Dreams. But I loathe puns. So, Penrose it is."
"Darling, where is your imagination?"
Eames scoops up the puppy and stands, talking to Penrose directly.
"You don't want to be called Penrose, now do you? No. No of course you don't. Don't you worry. We'll find you something better."
Eames gazes at the dog in his arms, squinting a bit and thinking. Then he smiles, and turns to Arthur.
"Arthur, meet Twiglet. Twiglet, this is Arthur."
Then Eames holds out Twiglet-formerly-known-as-Penrose's paw and waits for Arthur to shake it. Arthur would tell him to fuck off ... but he's learned his lesson about swearing in front of Twyla.
And then he has an idea. He crouches down in front of the stroller, where Twyla is currently chewing on a stuffed bear's foot, and looks up at Eames.
"Eames, this is Pearl. Pearl, you remember your Father."
"Hep boo Paw Paw."
"Well I'm calling him Twiglet."
He's my dog. Where do you get off changing his name?"
"I'm a stubborn and irrational SOB?"
"You've got that right Paw Paw."
And right about then Eames began to realize he might just be in love with the man as well as the dog.
"The dog he took to right away. It was three weeks before he got MY name correct..."