Prompt 22. Bed
Just as the day before when Yusuf had come over for a business-related visit, Ariadne and Eames have disappeared into the back room with no sight of them for the past hour and a half.
Arthur impatiently taps his watch, deciding they've had long enough to themselves and it's time for them all to get back to work already. He gave up attempting to simply call one of their mobiles to drag them out over a week before, knowing it wouldn't work, and sighs with a roll of his eyes when he's forced to get up from what he's doing to go into the room himself.
As expected, there on the bed lie the forger and the architect. Ariadne is half sprawled across the chest of the other occupant of the bed, her face turned into the crook of his neck. Eames is breathing deep and even, nearly but not quite snoring, one arm lazily wrapped around the young woman as they sleep the afternoon away.
Eames is down to his pants and an undershirt, both are without shoes or socks, but otherwise the two are perfectly decently clothed. No hands or limbs are improperly placed. They simply sleep snuggled together out of either convenience with the narrowness of the bed they both want to use, or perhaps due to the closeness of the two of them.
Arthur wouldn't quite compare them to curled up kittens, as he's seen Eames piledrive his fist into opponents' faces with amazing power, and Ariadne is more claws and genius brain than fluffy cat.
He nearly smiles at the sight, but sticks two fingers in his mouth and lets out a piercing whistle instead, forcing two pairs of eyes to snap open immediately in sleepy glares. He does smile when he hears that the muttered string of expletives is coming from tiny Ariadne, not the bulky forger.
Even Eames looks mildly impressed at her application of creativity to that one.
Arthur impatiently taps his watch, deciding they've had long enough to themselves and it's time for them all to get back to work already. He gave up attempting to simply call one of their mobiles to drag them out over a week before, knowing it wouldn't work, and sighs with a roll of his eyes when he's forced to get up from what he's doing to go into the room himself.
As expected, there on the bed lie the forger and the architect. Ariadne is half sprawled across the chest of the other occupant of the bed, her face turned into the crook of his neck. Eames is breathing deep and even, nearly but not quite snoring, one arm lazily wrapped around the young woman as they sleep the afternoon away.
Eames is down to his pants and an undershirt, both are without shoes or socks, but otherwise the two are perfectly decently clothed. No hands or limbs are improperly placed. They simply sleep snuggled together out of either convenience with the narrowness of the bed they both want to use, or perhaps due to the closeness of the two of them.
Arthur wouldn't quite compare them to curled up kittens, as he's seen Eames piledrive his fist into opponents' faces with amazing power, and Ariadne is more claws and genius brain than fluffy cat.
He nearly smiles at the sight, but sticks two fingers in his mouth and lets out a piercing whistle instead, forcing two pairs of eyes to snap open immediately in sleepy glares. He does smile when he hears that the muttered string of expletives is coming from tiny Ariadne, not the bulky forger.
Even Eames looks mildly impressed at her application of creativity to that one.