FIC: Holed Up; Arthur/Ariadne; NC-17
Title: Holed Up
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Arthur/Ariadne
Summary: "Ariadne, there are way too many people in Prague who will now be looking for us - trust me, every airport, bus station and train terminal will be swarming with Morgan's men. Unless you mean to hitchhike our way out, we'll need to go to ground here for a while."
Notes/Warnings: For this prompt at inception_kink. 1,553 words.
When you're the best, that means that usually, things go right.
But sometimes things go wrong, even when you're the best. And when things go wrong, they really go wrong.
Arthur, ever cautious, his jaw tight with tension, purchased a disposable cell phone, and as they sat in the back corner of a tiny bakery, he called Eames from it. Ariadne attempted to keep an eye out for suspicious strangers as Arthur (using no names, of course) explained their situation - the mark had sniffed out their employer, and he'd spilled everything he knew about them to the guy, right before being shot, point-blank, in the head.
So now they had a very angry, very powerful mark - with lots of his own underground connections - after them, who knew their names and what they looked like.
When he rang off, Ariadne raised her eyebrows at him. "Arthur, you're freaking me out, here," she murmured, her voice low. "The longer we stay here -"
He raised a hand to cut her off. "We can't leave yet."
"What."
"Ariadne, there are way too many people in Prague who will now be looking for us - trust me, every airport, bus station and train terminal will be swarming with Morgan's men. Unless you mean to hitchhike our way out, we'll need to go to ground here for a while."
"And Eames can help with that?"
Arthur had the temerity to smile, just a little. "Eames has lots of experience lying low. That big mouth of his is always getting him into trouble. Don't worry, we'll make it out of this in one piece."
-------
The bolt-hole (as Arthur called it, annoyingly cheerful in the literary reference, like it was going to make her decide this was some sort of Holmesian adventure), was secreted behind an ancient boiler in an old warehouse. In the basement, of course, so there weren't even any windows.
It was two rooms (if you counted the bathroom which made Ariadne think the European water closet was more applicable now than ever before), furnished only with the essentials - a camp stove, mini fridge, microwave, a small, ancient radio, one raggedy armchair and a bed tucked away in one corner.
"How long do we have to stay here?" she asked plaintively as Arthur set down the duffel bag which held some clean clothes and glanced around.
"As long as we need to. Eames will contact us when the heat has died down enough for us to get out of town," he said coolly. "Could be a week or two, maybe longer."
Ariadne gave him a sour look, which he returned only with a shrug. "You get the bed."
She was so depressed she didn't even argue with him.
--------
The first couple of days were - well, they were okay, she supposed, as far as these things went. There were quite a few drawers and shelves to go through in the room. Arthur pointed out that there would be enough food and bottled water to last them six weeks at least, and the contents of the room bore that out - canned soups, easy mac, the sorts of things that needed only water and a microwave to be edible, mostly.
But not much in the way of things to do. There was an old pack of cards, a couple of puzzles, and reading material, mostly of the pornographic variety. A lot of it, actually.
When she discovered the cache, she held up an old Playgirl for inspection. "Good to know my suspicions about Eames were correct," she quipped.
Arthur just shrugged. "I don't make a habit of prying into the personal lives of coworkers," was all he said.
Still, even he had to blink in surprise when she uncovered the drawer full of condoms.
--------
The first week, they spent putting the puzzles together and playing card games - Arthur was teaching her bridge, but she was way better at poker, beating him handily nearly every time. At first, she thought he must be letting her win, but she knew enough about him by now to know that he just didn't do things like that. If he could win, he would.
She liked that about him.
--------
He turned the phone on twice each day, just long enough to check the messages - he didn't want anyone tracing their location, of course. And twice a day, he scowled faintly, and she knew there was no word. So he put the kettle on the camp stove and fixed them soup.
Every night, she would curl up on the bed, facing the wall, and feel (imagine, hope) his eyes on her. The fourth night, unable to stand it, the way they were always so close together, the way she could always smell him right there, her fingers slipped between her thighs. It was surprisingly easy, she thought, keeping still and quiet as she touched herself. When she came, her breath hitched, and she trembled a little, but there was no reaction from across the room, where the armchair was, and she fell asleep quickly after that.
The next morning, of course, she couldn't quite look Arthur in the eyes, whether from guilt or fear that he'd heard something, or maybe a little hope that he had, she wasn't sure.
But he acted like he always did, quiet and cool and competent, and as always she was left feeling silly for trying to read more into his eyes than was really there.
---------
But it became a habit - she told herself that it was just a way to help her get to sleep, help her relax in a tense situation. She made the same excuses to herself every night as she found the damp between her legs, and didn't think too much about the fact that she was imagining fingers a little longer, a cool look turned warm.
Almost another week passed, like that, days filled with stupid card games and reading old magazines, Arthur checking that damn phone and trying to come up with new conversational topics, and every night she thought about asking him to join her in the bed.
--------
The night Ariadne started picturing what he'd look like with his head buried between her thighs, was the night she felt a light tap on her shoulder.
Yelping in surprise, she shot up, clutching the sheet to herself like she was trying to protect her modesty - even while wearing pajamas. Arthur stood over her, watching her intently.
"What're you -" she began, but he cut her off, covering her mouth with his.
She was so shocked, she barely registered the way he pressed down on top of her, inexorable, hard lines against her. The way he tugged the pants down her hips, the way his tongue sought entrance to her mouth.
Before she knew it, he had one of those damn condoms in his hand, and they were both naked, and she was clutching at his hips, his shoulders, his hair, saying "Yes, yes, Arthur, please, in me, I want..."
He pushed into her with a grunt, stopping her words again with a kiss, and for a while the only sounds were their labored breathing, the squeaking of the bed underneath them, and the rattling of the boiler outside.
Just before she came apart, Ariadne found herself thinking this whole thing might not be so bad, and then her mind was wiped of all thought as she shuddered and moaned, and he said her name, just once, as he twitched and stilled inside her.
When she woke up, she was alone in the bed, her pajamas on, and Arthur was in the chair, like always. She clutched her totem - that, and the slight, fading ache between her legs the only things grounding her to reality.
----------
They didn't talk about it. Their days remained the same - Arthur checking the phone once in the morning and once in the evening, cooking their meals, doing puzzles and playing card games.
And every night, he slipped into the bed with her, gave her mindblowing sex, then retreated back to the armchair.
Three weeks into their self-imposed captivity, Arthur checked the phone and let out a quiet whoop of relief.
"There will be two train tickets to Brussels waiting for us at the station tomorrow," he proclaimed, smiling at her in a way that took her breath away.
"That's... great," she said, and it was, but she also had the feeling that whatever it was that had developed between them in this little space wouldn't survive the harsh light of day, once they were out.
"Arthur," she said, and he looked at her, eyes once again shuttered as he started cleaning up, gathering their things.
"Arthur," she repeated, and then her hand was at the small of his back. He paused in his movements, turned to look at her, a question in his eyes.
"Do you want to have a few drinks, when we get to Brussels? Or... Something?" She bit her lip, afraid of his answer.
He turned, then, his arms going around her waist, a hand at the small of her back pulling her close to him. And he smiled. "I'd like that," he murmured. "I thought you'd never ask."
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Arthur/Ariadne
Summary: "Ariadne, there are way too many people in Prague who will now be looking for us - trust me, every airport, bus station and train terminal will be swarming with Morgan's men. Unless you mean to hitchhike our way out, we'll need to go to ground here for a while."
Notes/Warnings: For this prompt at inception_kink. 1,553 words.
When you're the best, that means that usually, things go right.
But sometimes things go wrong, even when you're the best. And when things go wrong, they really go wrong.
Arthur, ever cautious, his jaw tight with tension, purchased a disposable cell phone, and as they sat in the back corner of a tiny bakery, he called Eames from it. Ariadne attempted to keep an eye out for suspicious strangers as Arthur (using no names, of course) explained their situation - the mark had sniffed out their employer, and he'd spilled everything he knew about them to the guy, right before being shot, point-blank, in the head.
So now they had a very angry, very powerful mark - with lots of his own underground connections - after them, who knew their names and what they looked like.
When he rang off, Ariadne raised her eyebrows at him. "Arthur, you're freaking me out, here," she murmured, her voice low. "The longer we stay here -"
He raised a hand to cut her off. "We can't leave yet."
"What."
"Ariadne, there are way too many people in Prague who will now be looking for us - trust me, every airport, bus station and train terminal will be swarming with Morgan's men. Unless you mean to hitchhike our way out, we'll need to go to ground here for a while."
"And Eames can help with that?"
Arthur had the temerity to smile, just a little. "Eames has lots of experience lying low. That big mouth of his is always getting him into trouble. Don't worry, we'll make it out of this in one piece."
-------
The bolt-hole (as Arthur called it, annoyingly cheerful in the literary reference, like it was going to make her decide this was some sort of Holmesian adventure), was secreted behind an ancient boiler in an old warehouse. In the basement, of course, so there weren't even any windows.
It was two rooms (if you counted the bathroom which made Ariadne think the European water closet was more applicable now than ever before), furnished only with the essentials - a camp stove, mini fridge, microwave, a small, ancient radio, one raggedy armchair and a bed tucked away in one corner.
"How long do we have to stay here?" she asked plaintively as Arthur set down the duffel bag which held some clean clothes and glanced around.
"As long as we need to. Eames will contact us when the heat has died down enough for us to get out of town," he said coolly. "Could be a week or two, maybe longer."
Ariadne gave him a sour look, which he returned only with a shrug. "You get the bed."
She was so depressed she didn't even argue with him.
--------
The first couple of days were - well, they were okay, she supposed, as far as these things went. There were quite a few drawers and shelves to go through in the room. Arthur pointed out that there would be enough food and bottled water to last them six weeks at least, and the contents of the room bore that out - canned soups, easy mac, the sorts of things that needed only water and a microwave to be edible, mostly.
But not much in the way of things to do. There was an old pack of cards, a couple of puzzles, and reading material, mostly of the pornographic variety. A lot of it, actually.
When she discovered the cache, she held up an old Playgirl for inspection. "Good to know my suspicions about Eames were correct," she quipped.
Arthur just shrugged. "I don't make a habit of prying into the personal lives of coworkers," was all he said.
Still, even he had to blink in surprise when she uncovered the drawer full of condoms.
--------
The first week, they spent putting the puzzles together and playing card games - Arthur was teaching her bridge, but she was way better at poker, beating him handily nearly every time. At first, she thought he must be letting her win, but she knew enough about him by now to know that he just didn't do things like that. If he could win, he would.
She liked that about him.
--------
He turned the phone on twice each day, just long enough to check the messages - he didn't want anyone tracing their location, of course. And twice a day, he scowled faintly, and she knew there was no word. So he put the kettle on the camp stove and fixed them soup.
Every night, she would curl up on the bed, facing the wall, and feel (imagine, hope) his eyes on her. The fourth night, unable to stand it, the way they were always so close together, the way she could always smell him right there, her fingers slipped between her thighs. It was surprisingly easy, she thought, keeping still and quiet as she touched herself. When she came, her breath hitched, and she trembled a little, but there was no reaction from across the room, where the armchair was, and she fell asleep quickly after that.
The next morning, of course, she couldn't quite look Arthur in the eyes, whether from guilt or fear that he'd heard something, or maybe a little hope that he had, she wasn't sure.
But he acted like he always did, quiet and cool and competent, and as always she was left feeling silly for trying to read more into his eyes than was really there.
---------
But it became a habit - she told herself that it was just a way to help her get to sleep, help her relax in a tense situation. She made the same excuses to herself every night as she found the damp between her legs, and didn't think too much about the fact that she was imagining fingers a little longer, a cool look turned warm.
Almost another week passed, like that, days filled with stupid card games and reading old magazines, Arthur checking that damn phone and trying to come up with new conversational topics, and every night she thought about asking him to join her in the bed.
--------
The night Ariadne started picturing what he'd look like with his head buried between her thighs, was the night she felt a light tap on her shoulder.
Yelping in surprise, she shot up, clutching the sheet to herself like she was trying to protect her modesty - even while wearing pajamas. Arthur stood over her, watching her intently.
"What're you -" she began, but he cut her off, covering her mouth with his.
She was so shocked, she barely registered the way he pressed down on top of her, inexorable, hard lines against her. The way he tugged the pants down her hips, the way his tongue sought entrance to her mouth.
Before she knew it, he had one of those damn condoms in his hand, and they were both naked, and she was clutching at his hips, his shoulders, his hair, saying "Yes, yes, Arthur, please, in me, I want..."
He pushed into her with a grunt, stopping her words again with a kiss, and for a while the only sounds were their labored breathing, the squeaking of the bed underneath them, and the rattling of the boiler outside.
Just before she came apart, Ariadne found herself thinking this whole thing might not be so bad, and then her mind was wiped of all thought as she shuddered and moaned, and he said her name, just once, as he twitched and stilled inside her.
When she woke up, she was alone in the bed, her pajamas on, and Arthur was in the chair, like always. She clutched her totem - that, and the slight, fading ache between her legs the only things grounding her to reality.
----------
They didn't talk about it. Their days remained the same - Arthur checking the phone once in the morning and once in the evening, cooking their meals, doing puzzles and playing card games.
And every night, he slipped into the bed with her, gave her mindblowing sex, then retreated back to the armchair.
Three weeks into their self-imposed captivity, Arthur checked the phone and let out a quiet whoop of relief.
"There will be two train tickets to Brussels waiting for us at the station tomorrow," he proclaimed, smiling at her in a way that took her breath away.
"That's... great," she said, and it was, but she also had the feeling that whatever it was that had developed between them in this little space wouldn't survive the harsh light of day, once they were out.
"Arthur," she said, and he looked at her, eyes once again shuttered as he started cleaning up, gathering their things.
"Arthur," she repeated, and then her hand was at the small of his back. He paused in his movements, turned to look at her, a question in his eyes.
"Do you want to have a few drinks, when we get to Brussels? Or... Something?" She bit her lip, afraid of his answer.
He turned, then, his arms going around her waist, a hand at the small of her back pulling her close to him. And he smiled. "I'd like that," he murmured. "I thought you'd never ask."