The Trembling Of The Migratory Birds - Part 6: All Out Of Faith
All Out Of Faith
All Out of Faith
The Alvar Aalto center is the perfect place to find inspiration on the Finnish style.
Of course, Ariadne's classes in college have dealt with Aalto, but it's something else altogether to be standing in front of the buildings instead of watching them on a screen or seeing them in a book. Seinäjoki, as small and unimportant as it may be, boasts one of Aalto's most important creations. The Aalto center is composed of six buildings, completed between 1960 and 1968. Their lines are clean and simple, timeless, even; they form a perfect meeting place for the administrative and cultural parts of the city's life. The fact that all buildings in the center are designed by the same architect, and were even been built in the same time period, makes Seinäjoki's architecture special, rare not only in Finland but internationally too.
Aalto designed every last detail in this area, from the gigantic Lakeuden Risti church, the Cross on the Plain, to the granite slates and dice stones on the civic square connecting the buildings. It fascinates Ariadne that one architect left his mark here so completely. Aalto's first building was the Staff building of the Civil Guard, inaugurated in 1925. The fact that most of the other buildings have been brought into existence in the same city almost 40 years later speaks of Aalto's fondness for this city. It also showcases the architect's classical period and shows the way his style evolved and…
Ariadne realises that she's geeking out and doesn't care in the least. Dream architecture is where she really sees her future but that doesn't make her immune to the great masters who have inspired her before. It's an old love affair, and one she will never be completely indifferent about. She doubts she could make either Eames or Arthur understand this completely, so she's glad she has this morning to herself. Mainly, of course, she's here to do some research she can't do online, but if she's honest, she enjoys the chance of getting out by herself and seeing this place with her own eyes. She's been afraid she'd have to leave and not see anything of the city. Arthur is a slavedriver when he wants to be, and he's been extremely tense these past few days, so she's glad he agreed to drop her off here and give her the chance to explore the area by herself. She gives him a small wave when she passes him where he's sitting by the side of the fountain with his laptop and a Styrofoam cup of coffee.
It was good to see him laugh over the Indian Food Incident, IFI, as he has started to call it to rile Eames. On her way her hostel last night, while trying to distract herself from imagining what had happened to Eames in the dream, she'd wondered if she'd ever seen Arthur give a full-blown laugh. She honestly couldn't remember. She still can't.
Maybe their company is good for him. She grins to herself, pops a sticky hard candy she bought from a street vendor earlier in her mouth and walks into the library.
The inside of it is bright without the aid of artificial light; the sloping fan-shaped window lets a lot of natural light filter in and throws heavy shadows on the curved, lowered ceiling that's only held up by a couple of slim columns. White walls and wood dominate the library but it's strangely warm nevertheless - maybe it's just the smell of books that she loves so much. Ariadne is suddenly thrown back into her childhood, into spending hours and hours curled in a comfortable chair in the college library while her mother worked her way through her PhD thesis. The libraries of her childhood had had comfortable, dark carpets and small green-shaded lamps that gave a warm glow when the light outside faded.
Seinäjoki's library boasts gleaming hardwood floors and a curved counter that makes the room almost look organic, gentle despite its otherwise stark appearance somehow. Ariadne breathes deep and looks around. There is no extraneous detail, everything is in place, both functional and beautiful without pretention. This is what architecture should be like. She can't help but snap a couple of pictures with her phone.
The librarian who entered the main reading hall behind her with an armful of books just smiles at her, obviously used to this kind of behaviour. "You'll have a better view if you move a little more to the left," she says in fluent English.
Ariadne smiles back, thanks her. She snaps another picture and, on a whim, sends it to Eames.
She receives a message in return only a few minutes later. The picture shows a half-eaten ice-cream cone and the words: "Your idea of fun, my idea of fun." Ariadne tries to fight the laughter bubbling up but fails.
The librarian smiles at her again, then points toward a sign over the entrance. No mobile phones. This time, Ariadne fights a blush and shuts the phone off quickly on a muttered apology.
***
Eames gets the call when he's just reached the very bottom of the cone and the melting remnants of hazelnut ice cream drip down his index finger.
"Yes," he answers while still licking his fingers. He lets go of his index finger with a wet, audible plop.
"I see the manners haven't improved?" a woman with a broad Fife accent asks, amused.
"But you like scoundrels, Suz," Eames smiles.
"I happen to like nice men."
They go through the Star Wars dialogue as easily as they used to years ago when they still worked together and Eames can't help smiling wider. He misses Suz sometimes. Not enough to go back, but enough to consider it from time to time.
"What can I do for you, my little jock?"
Her huff of laughter is accompanied by a burst of static through the line. "Before you keep insulting my country, better ask me what I can do for you."
"And what would that be?" The smile slips, though he still keeps the tone right. There's something about this unexpected call that he doesn't like.
"Remember the little architecture student you asked me to run a background check on a couple of months ago?"
"Vaguely?"
"Oh, give me some credit, Eames."
He rolls his shoulders. She just knows him too well, and you don't play with a woman like Suz. Even on a bad day, she could kick his arse halfway from Scotland to Wales. "Fine. Yes."
"What happened to her? Did she work with you? She's suddenly showing up on a top secret international wanted list."
Something cold trickles down Eames' back. He doesn't need to ask Suz why she called him. They have an unspoken agreement she's never once let him down on. He walks away from the crowd on the marketplace to a quieter side-street. "Do they say why?"
"They mention a connection to your current partner."
"Which list?"
"Intelligence."
"Suz."
She laughs at his tone. "Conglomerate of Japanese and US, I believe."
Damn it, Arthur.
"Did you see anything else?"
"Just her name on the list. You seemed to have taken an interest in her, so I figured I'd let you know sooner rather than later."
Eames' muscles tense all at once, he needs to get out of here immediately and find Ariadne. "Ta, Suz."
"I'm still waiting for that 1926 Macallan you promised me."
He nods, his mind already five steps away from the conversation. "When I'm in town next."
She snorts and hangs up. They both know he'll never be 'in town' again since his name and face took a prominent spot on several SIS person of interest lists. He knows he can count on her nevertheless.
Eames calls Ariadne and gets her voicemail, a short but cheerful note telling him to leave a message. He's about a twenty minute walk from the library. Too long.
It's instinct, but he's never had it fool him before and he knows that something just isn't right here.
He calls Arthur.
***
The plan was to come here to do some research on Finland and find inspiration for her design. Instead, Ariadne's intent on the book of architectural renderings, a rare edition she hasn't been able to lay her hands on in Paris, so geeked out and happy about it that she doesn't notice the two men approaching until on of them is right behind her. She smells aftershave and leather.
Ariadne frowns. She knows she demands more personal space than the average European, even after spending a year in Paris, but this guy is way too close even for European standards. She looks up from the book and starts to twist and say something to him when she feels something pushed hard into her ribs. Ariadne swipes at it, wonders if the guy tripped or is just a regular bully.
She still hasn't identified what it is when a low voice rasps in her ear. "Slow and easy. Put the book down and get up. This is a gun. It's silenced, since this is a library. If you struggle no one will hear the shot that takes you out."
Her heart skips a beat; another, then starts beating twice as forceful again. Oh, god. Her head spins as mindless panic begins to surface. The book blurs before her eyes. Oh, god, that's the muzzle of the gun, right there between her ribs. No, the silencer, she realises, picturing one from any of the innumerable movies she's seen. This is insane. It can't be happening. Not here, not now, not to her. She begins to shake. Remembers Arthur sitting in front of the library, just a couple dozen feet away, but now as good as on the other side of the ocean.
"Just come with us, miss."
"What do you - "
More pressure against her ribcage. "We don't intend to hurt you but we will. So just come with us." The man's voice is calm, much too calm for this situation.
Ariadne doesn't dare look up, but she looks to the librarian, shoots her a terrified glance only to realise that another man is talking to the librarian, drawing her attention away.
She's beginning to hyperventilate and when she does rise from her chair, her legs feel like lead. The man next to her lowers the gun when he senses her moment of weakness, clamps his hand around her wrist and it's in that moment that her half-forgotten self-defence training, from the class her mother made her take before she left for Europe, kicks in.
She's not been in the business long to know anything, much less plan an escape, but she has always been a fast thinker and a fast runner. So she ends up doing what comes naturally, what her teacher drilled into her. She rotates her thumb up and pulls her elbow toward her, effectively breaking the man's hold on her wrist. She ducks, clenches her hands around the back of the chair she'd been sitting on, then moves, lightning-quick, and lifts the chair, gets some space between her and the man, wheels around, swings and slams it into the man's face and chest with a dull thud. She's vaguely away of the spurt of blood and the groan of pain he gives, of the dismayed cry of the librarian, but all she really cares about is that for a precious few seconds, she's surprised them into motionlessness and that's when she runs.
Ariadne dodges around rows of books and students milling between the shelves, trying to cover as much ground as possible while at the same time getting out of the line of sight. The librarian shouts suddenly, tries to step in Ariadne's path, but Ariadne just shoulders her out of the way, the strength of fear at her disposal. She runs, her blood pumping, rushing in her ears so she's deaf to almost everything else. She hesitates for an agonising moment to look for Arthur. Oh, god, this can't be fucking happening, she's going to kill Arthur for not being where he said he'd be, but she has no time, no time, no fucking time, so she starts running again, shouts behind her and the heavy clattering of shoes against slate. She turns, can't stop herself just like Lot's wife and sees two men running toward her, huge steps and dark clothes and she curses, runs at full speed toward the used book carts in front of the library, dodges them at the very last second and pushes them over behind her with a crash.
***
The Seinäjoki municipal library offers free Wi-Fi and it extends to the public square around it, so Arthur sits in the sun in front of it on a bench, laptop on his knees and a paper cup of coffee next to him.
The laptop is one of many he bought for this job. He doesn't store any data on it, has everything backed up on several untraceable accounts in a Cloud. Should the laptop get stolen or should he have to leave it, it won't matter. The browser history wipes itself clean after every use and there is nothing else to leave a trace to him. It's a paranoid, expensive indulgence, but he's paid well and setting up work is never cheap. The workshop Eames showed him isn't going to be cheap, either, and Arthur knows he's paying for that, too. It feels like he's bleeding money, but he appreciates Eames' caution even if he doesn't trust his motives.
His research on the mark is long done and he's using the time he has left until he picks Ariadne up to make good on his promise to himself to dig into Eames' past a little more. It's just a precaution, so he wonders why the hell it makes him feel as guilty as it does.
Arthur's phone rings when he's just hacked his way into the third top-secret database to find information about Eames. Seeing Eames' phone-number when he's just found Eames' name on a list it shouldn't be on at all makes him flinch hard enough to knock over the coffee cup.
"Arthur, where's Ariadne?" Eames asks without waiting for Arthur to even acknowledge him. Eames' voice is clipped and tight.
"At the library, where she's - "
"Have you seen her?"
"I've seen her step into it, all geeked out about it, I'm sure - "
"Where is she, Arthur?"
Something in Eames' voice grabs Arthur by the neck with icy fingers. Eames' instinct is the one thing Arthur has never doubted. His stomach bottoms out. His scalp begins to prickle. For a long moment, his thoughts stutter to a stop, his brain fizzes like a torn electricity cable, he can't move and can't think.
"Arthur!" Eames voice snaps him out of the fugue.
Catching himself, Arthur closes the laptop with a snap. "What do you know?"
"She's not answering her phone. Do you see her?"
In a moment of relieved pissed-offness, Arthur realises that Eames is being paranoid. "She's in a library, Eames. No phones allowed."
"She knows never to switch it off completely. Just like you." Eames sounds clipped and precise now, the gentle London lilt of his voice giving way to something cold. "Do you see her?"
"Of course I don't fucking see her, Eames, I - "
He doesn't finish the sentence because right in that moment, the library's door crashes open and Ariadne comes running from it, her eye wide with panic, like a gazelle in flight. It takes no more than three seconds for two men to come running after her. Arthur sees the unmistakeable shape of gun-holsters under their jackets.
***
Voices scream angry and metal clangs against the floor but the sound of feet becomes less pronounced once Ariadne has dumped the book cart. The public square that connects the buildings of the Aalto centre is too big, though, she's never going to make it, all they need to do is shoot to take her down.
A group of teenagers crosses her path, she bumps into one of the kids when she barrels through them, hears a few universal dirty words, but her brain kicks in quickly enough that she stops and apologises, hides in the group for a few moments until someone grabs her arm and yanks her bodily way from the group. She's out of breath and exhausted from the unexpected run but still gets in an evasive manoeuvre, struggles free on a muted scream until she hears a sharp, "Ariadne!"
Arthur. She doesn't think she's ever been so happy to see him before in her life.
He pulls her into a small alley between the library and the theatre, then guides her up to the doors of the theatre. The entrance hall is empty, save for the staff members setting up signs for the annual summer theatre event.
A voice asks a question out of nowhere, nothing but a jumble of vowels and Ariadne flinches when a staffer suddenly stands in her way with a half-questioning, half-smiling face.
She nods out of instinct, out of breath, even if she has no real clue what the question was. Nodding is always good, right? She trusts Arthur. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees people running and pointing outside. She spots a sign she hopes is leading to a stage and gestures for Arthur to follow her.
Arthur says something to the staffer while Ariadne's already starting up the stairs, and soon, his steps echo on the staircase and he's beside her again.
"First door on the left," she says.
The stage is small and dark, offers no place to hide and a group of what Ariadne guesses are students rehearsing for a play. Several look up once, but the rest ignore Arthur and Ariadne completely, too engrossed in their play. Their presence is dismissed almost immediately.
She's ready to run out again to find some kind of damn broom cupboard to hide in when Arthur pulls her with him, to the front row of the theatre, then between the benches. He drops, first to a crouch, gestures to the one student who does look down, places his index finger over his lips and Ariadne hopes that the dreadlocked boy will understand.
The next thing she knows is that Arthur throws a last look to the stage-room's door and then stretches out so he's lying between the benches. She shoots him an incredulous look, her mind supplies uselessly that he looks pale against the dark carpet and black leather seats, then the door creaks and she goes down without thinking, lands half on top of Arthur, half to his side. His hand slides around her waist to steady her, his grip stronger than necessary. He catches her gaze, holds it and wills her to be quiet with just the thinning of his lips. She doesn't need to be told that, though it is difficult to calm her breathing. She tries to hold her breath, realises she can't because her lungs burn and scream at her, then tries to breathe as quietly as possible, all the while looking at Arthur rather than the seats around him.
The door flies open with a bang and the rehearsal on the stage stops. Ariadne winces, reaches for Arthur, claws her hand into his shoulder and wonders if he went mad. They'll find them here if just one of the students rats them out. She swears her breathing is too loud, there's no way her pursuers won’t hear it. They’ll catch her because she can’t calm the fuck down and all her damn running will have been for nothing. She's not going to faint, she won't, but blood is pumping so fast in her veins that she has trouble concentrating on anything else, close enough to a panic attack that she can already taste it, the repugnant smack of stained steel.
Arthur shakes his head minutely, keeps holding her gaze, holding her steady, and she holds on to that gaze like a lifeline, drowns out the sounds and concentrates on nothing but the shape and colour of his eyes, the first fine lines around them, the length of his lashes. It's better than listening to the screaming panic that's trying to drown over her. She ends up cataloguing all the points of contact between their bodies just to distract herself though, just to fight down the need to scream.
His body cushions her and his arm holds her tight. His hand - slim, she knows, because she's stared at his long pianist's fingers in moments of fatigue - is pressed just over her waist, thumb bruising the skin over her lowest rib. In this position, she feels his breathing, his chest going up to meet hers. He controls his breathing, too. Sweat glistens at his temple and a single drop rolls into his hair. He's been sitting outside in the sun and a fine dusting of freckles spans the bridge of his nose. She smells fresh sweat, soap, hair gel and sun-warmed skin, mingling with her own deodorant and the body lotion she put on this morning.
Footsteps echo in the stage room, muted by the carpet. Ariadne squeezes her eyes shut to quell the panic that tears at her like a wild animal. When her heart feels like it's beating its way clean out of her chest, she lets out her breath in a silent whoosh and tries to listen through the rush of her pounding heartbeat. Are those foots steps coming down to the stage?
Ariadne freezes when the same voice that has threatened her in the library speaks. "Pardon my interruption. Have any of you seen a young woman, dark hair, jeans and cardigan, and a bright red scarf around her neck?"
Her hand instinctively goes to her scarf but Arthur pulls her closer against him, shifts her to the side so his body is covering hers. Her head comes to rest on the ground and something rolls away. Cold wetness seeps into her hair. Spilled drink. Ariadne fights a shudder of disgust. She slides her arm around Arthur, under his jacket to hold onto him more tightly, to disappear under him and as she does, her fingers come in contact with his shoulder-holster and the body-warm metal of his gun. She freezes, then traces the outline of the gun with her fingertips, drawing a measure of calm from the knowledge of its existence.
One of the student actors replies in heavily accented English. "Why do you want to find her?"
Ariadne can hear the fake suave smile in the man's voice. "She's my niece and we became separated - I thought she might have wandered in here. She's fond of the theatre. And of Aalto's designs."
"Just her?" the student asks and Ariadne's heart skips a beat. She hasn't seen the student's reaction to Arthur's plea for silence.
"It's just the two of us admiring the sights," Suave Voice agrees.
Ariadne clutches at Arthur, her sweaty fingers no doubt wrinkling his usually impeccable jacket. He presses his palm against her shoulder, warmth and comfort and a silent command to remain still and quiet. But, oh god, what if the next thing she hears is that student telling Suave Voice she is in the aisle between the seats here!?
Arthur shifts against her a little, to find a better position should he have to fight, or so Ariadne guesses. She feels all the hard lines of his body pressing her to the floor. His belt-buckle digs into her hip. His leg slides between hers and she is suddenly, acutely aware of the way her body reacts to his proximity. Adrenaline, she thinks. Nothing but adrenaline. Her scalp prickles as she waits for the student's answer. The wetness from the puddle of soda she must be lying in spreads through her hair.
The footsteps come closer still. Ariadne squeezes her eyes shut even tighter than before. She's beginning to see stars, hates the way she shakes like a leaf not only from fear but from disgust, too. Her fingers circle around Arthur's gun faster. She wonders if she could draw it should push come to shove.
"Dark-haired, you said?" the student asks again, sounding thoughtful.
This is it. He's going to rat them out any second now. Ariadne clenches her hand around the gun and Arthur glides his own hand around to cover hers. The whispered, "Don't," is nothing but a ghost of a sound coming to rest against her forehead on an exhalation. Her hand goes slack. His breath skitters into her hair. Fast.
"Yes. Dark and wavey. You'd remember her, she's pretty."
Ariadne's skin crawls.
Appreciative laughter comes from the English-speaking student, along with a few words in Finnish, sounding amused.
"Sorry, there were two blond American girls who came through an hour ago, but I haven't seen anyone else." A spat of Finnish switches back and forth between the speaker and some of the other actors, before he adds in English again. "None of us have."
Seconds trickle by. Maybe minutes. Ariadne loses track of time. She lifts her head slightly when she hears no more footsteps. They're not out of harm's way yet, but she is getting sick of the fear flooding her system, of the helplessness of the wait.
"Thank you," Suave Voice says, "and I apologise again for the interruption." He doesn't move away yet, though.
When she opens her eyes again, they're in line with Arthur's collarbone. The pulse at his neck jumps and the knot of his tie is too close to his Adam's apple, bobbing up and down; the glossy silk must be strangling him. They may have to run again if the thugs really aren't gone. Arthur can't run if he chokes, right? She extracts her hand from under his and moves it up his chest to his tie.
"Be sure to come back and see the performance with your... niece."
Arthur's gaze snaps to hers and this time, something else is there besides the warning. His pupils widen as she runs her fingertip under the knot of the tie and the back of her hand brushes against his chin, meets skin prickly with a hint of stubble. It's as if his scent changes right there and then. A hint of musk mingles with the smells she caught from him earlier. Something flickers through his eyes. Her gaze drops when she feels warm breath against her face. His lips part ever so slightly and she finds herself staring at his mouth while she still runs her fingertip along the space between his skin and the silk.
"O! let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven; keep me in temper; I would not be mad!"
Ariadne twitches back as the loud recital starts, bumps her head into the row of seats next to her. Faintly, she hears the theatre's door click closed. She drops her head against the carpet, moves her hand to her forehead, swipes her hair back and watches her hand shake so badly she wonders if she'll ever draw again.
Arthur extricates himself from her and sits up, then rests a warm hand against her cheek. His hand spans almost the entire side of her face. "All right?"
She shakes her head, feels the palm of his hand slide against her skin. "No." Wetness trickles down the back of her neck. "But let's get out of here right now."
They wave to the theatre students as they exit, earning smiles and wishes of good luck. Perhaps the students think they're star-crossed lovers. Ariadne wonders if that would be better than the truth: dreamers on the run from thugs. Both options seem to have strong odds of ending in tragedy.
***
Arthur makes Ariadne change into a promo shirt for the summer theatre event, warm orange with a big print of As You Like It over the back and chest, same as the student actors are wearing, and that's for sale in the lobby. Arthur doesn't change his appearance, the kidnappers never saw him thanks to the student's help. It's just Ariadne who needs a makeover. Her hair is a dripping, sticky mess where she’s rolled into a puddle of spilled soda, so he makes her put up her hair and put on a black fedora he finds in the costume pool, and only then do they venture downstairs. As an afterthought, he runs his hands through his hair and ruffles it, distinguishes it from the neat slicked-back state. Ariadne, now more calm, quirks her lips.
Arthur still has no clue who tried to snatch Ariadne or why, but he's not naïve enough to believe this was just a random attack, even if Ariadne obviously does. The men were far too professional for that. Real thugs would have used their guns, wouldn't have cared about witnesses.
On the off chance that either of their phones are tapped he crushes his SIM card underneath his heel and dumps his phone in the theatre's dustbin. The laptop he left submerged in the pool next to the library earlier.
They'll have to contact Eames. Arthur's sure the workshop hasn't been and won't be found, or Eames never would have suggested to set up shop there in the first place. As little but alarming as what he found out during his all too brief check on Eames is, the only thing it hasn't accomplished is to make Arthur mistrust Eames' professionalism.
He's wondering about his own, though. As he walks down the theatre's stairs with Ariadne close by, he remembers her hands underneath his tie, the way his body reacted to her proximity. The worry that came like a stab to the gut when Eames called earlier should have been enough to tip him off, but what happened in the auditorium only confirms it - he's in over his head. He's no longer drawing the line between professional and personal and he wonders when it'll impair his judgement like it did Dom's, when it'll endanger them all.
The square outside appears clear, so they venture outside in a group of students in shirts identical to Ariadne's. Ariadne stays close to him, crushing his hand in a fierce grip. She doesn't need a protector, she's handled her escape pretty well by herself, but the trusting gesture still makes his stomach do a slow-motion roll.
They both squint against the sunlight and Arthur scans the square, certain that the kidnappers haven't given up. He tugs Ariadne closer against him and winds his arm around her shoulder. The fedora brushes his arm before her hip does.
They only get a couple of steps before Ariadne tenses and says, "Over there. Quick, give me a kiss."
He barely has enough time to raise his eyebrow at her when she leans up to him, on her tiptoes. Her hand comes to rest on his neck and she pulls him down and pushes herself up at the same time. Her lips press against his and this isn't anything like his playful tease during the Fischer job. Ariadne is demanding like a force of nature, no holds barred. She nips at his lower lip and Arthur feels the zing of it go straight to his toes. She tastes of fear and unpredictable electricity. He struggles against the quagmire of need that tries to pull him under and keeps his eyes open, catches the fedora before it slips from her head, shields her with it. Despite his body's reaction to her, despite wanting nothing but to lose himself in the taste and smell of her for just a few seconds, he catches sight of the kidnappers over the fedora's rim and evaluates.
They stare at them, open and blank, as though they hadn't expected Arthur. He fights a groan when Ariadne licks against the seam of his lips, lost in the distraction, but he can't close his eyes and back her up against the next wall like he wants to because the kidnappers come into full view now. Ariadne feels his tension and slows the kiss, leaves it at a faint pressure.
Arthur knows for sure now that the people who tried to snatch Ariadne aren't just thugs. There's something in the way they're holding themselves that screams training and wariness. They're fading back against the town hall already, nearly disappearing in the shadows. Arthur moves his mouth from Ariadne's lips to her neck and looks at the two kidnappers fully. He makes sure they see his gesture when he takes Ariadne's hand and leads it to his shoulder holster, pushing aside his suit jacket just enough so the straps and the hint of leather are visible even from the distance. Ariadne's breath stutters as her hand touches the Glock's butt. He hushes her, grabs her waist a little tighter.
It's a sharp moment of understanding when he meets the kidnappers gazes, clear and precise. If you want her, you'll have to get past me.
Both men nod and vanish in the shadows.
Arthur exhales against Ariadne's neck, slow and measured, rebuilding the control that slipped from him half an hour ago. He extricates himself from her and presses the fedora back on her head so it doesn't slip. He looks away from her lips, from the smeared gloss that he now knows tastes of mint.
"We're clear."
***
People mill to their left and right, visitors to the Tango festival, and a chatter of various languages floats around them as they push through the crowd.
"Where are we - "
"Not back to the hostel. They'll know where you're staying and will try again."
Ariadne stops abruptly in front of a shop window. "Who are they exactly?"
Arthur gives a careful shrug as he looks at the cutlery and porcelain on display in a window. She's doesn't suspect anything beyond a random attack yet, and he's not inclined to voice his suspicions to her. "Thugs?" he ventures.
"Thugs who know where I'm staying," she says and he can hear the raised eyebrow without needing to see it. "Thugs who're using silencers." She grabs his arm, turns him to face her. Her fingers bite through his suit jacket. "Give me some credit."
He exhales, reaches for her elbow. "Not here."
The street around them is bustling with people, but he's not sure if they're safe even so.
"Don't think I'll let you off the hook."
Arthur twitches a sardonic smile. "I'm counting on it."
***
They drive out of the city into what Ariadne can only describe as the middle of nowhere. The time in the car is spent in tense, utter silence; Arthur hasn't even turned on the radio. His knuckles on the wheel are white, his posture tense, and a frown is firm between his brows. Ariadne hasn't asked again where they're going, as it's obvious that their destination is going to be a hiding place. She's left to her own thoughts and realises that she should have expected danger when she took this job. She just hadn't expected the danger to be here, in real life. During the Fischer job, the only real danger had been in the dream, not outside of it. Not for her, anyway; it's easy to forget that Cobb could have been facing arrest as soon as he stepped through Customs at LAX. Things are different now. After today, this job isn't the same anymore. Arthur still hasn't divulged who tried to kidnap her, even though she's sure he has a very good idea. Later, she thinks. Later.
Arthur pulls into a dirt road that's overgrown with weeds. Carelessly thrown away trash flutters in the wind and the windows of the grey, industrial-like building Arthur drives up to are broken. It could be an old mill or a service station for farm engines that was abandoned years ago. Nothing here looks like it could be their destination, but Arthur kills the engine, gets out and guides her to a rusty metal door, raps his fingers on it and waits.
Ariadne shoots him a questioning look, but he doesn't answer. The hat itches on her head, her hair underneath will be a mess now the soda in it is dry. Sweat cools on her skin and she feels dirty and wants nothing but a shower. Just a little longer now. She remembers the shower in Arthur's hotel room and looks forward to going there once this little detour is over.
The door opens with a hoarse creak. Ariadne is relieved to see the face which appears behind it. Eames scans the road behind them, then pins Arthur with a look. "I take it you lost them?"
"Would I have come here otherwise?"
Eames steps aside, opens the door farther, while making a sweeping gesture toward the inside. "Well, then. Honeys, you're home."
Arthur brushes past him with an ease that clearly suggests that he's been here before and Ariadne follows more carefully.
"You have another five minutes to tell me what the hell is going on here and who 'they' are," Ariadne states with the first breath of dusty, too-warm air she takes in the factory workshop, "or I'm out of here."
"Where to, exactly?" Eames asks with a smirk that isn't friendly. "And how?"
The car keys dangle from Arthur's fingers.
Ariadne breathes against the need to yell in frustration. "I just got away from a kidnapping attempt. I think you owe me the damn courtesy to tell me what you know." God, the soda itches on her scalp.
"We don't know yet, Ariadne," Arthur says, his voice carefully neutral. "We're not sure if they really were after you or trying to get to us."
"Bullshit."
Arthur shrugs, his demeanour icy. "Believe what you want. It's all I have." He doesn't offer any more, instead turns on his heels and goes to check the exits.
"God," Ariadne huffs when Arthur's out of the room. "He's one cold bastard when he wants to be."
She expects Eames to agree with her, but he looks thoughtful instead. "What?" she asks.
Eames shakes his head slowly. "Don't knock it. We all cope with stress differently. This is his way."
"What, shutting down all emotions like a damn robot?"
"Would you prefer him to throw a screaming mimi of a fit?" Eames asks, and he sounds a little more agitated than Ariadne expects. Again, she wonders if she understands the situation at all, but that's their fault for being secretive bastards.
"No-oh?" she says, dragging out the word. What the hell?
Eames catches her raised eyebrows, relaxes. "Sorry. Wrong time and place, I know." He smiles and holds up his hands palms up. "All I'm saying is, don't ask him to give up his coping mechanisms, Ariadne. A guy as tightly wrapped as Arthur will unravel if you start undoing his knots."
She lets his words sink in and knows on an intellectual level that he's right. The other part of her, however, wants to know what an unravelled Arthur will look like and she can't help the quiver of anticipation.
"Don't," Eames warns.
Caught red-handed, she crosses her arms over her chest and looks toward the dirty window. Eames reads people far too easily.
"Would you like a tour?" Eames asks in an obvious but welcome attempt to break the tension and Ariadne looks around her for the first time.
The inside of the building - it looks more like a garage than a factory workshop now - is large but surprisingly tidy. The windows are high up but let enough light filter in to make extra lights unnecessary.
She spots a huge bed in the corner, secure between two walls, giving it the perfect view of both small windows and the door to the garage. She does a double-take when she spots a ficus tree standing next to it. She shoots Eames an amused look. Arthur must have had a fit when he first saw that and she has a feeling that that's exactly the reason Eames put it there.
A low hum directs her attention to another object - a fridge.
Ariadne turns back again, raises at eyebrow at Eames.
"Creature comforts," he says with a shrug. "We'll be spending a good four days here, prepping and dreaming. I know Arthur has a soft spot for them, but I won't spend five days dreaming in rickety lawn chairs. Call me a hedonist."
Ariadne finds herself agreeing with the sentiment. One things stops her short, though. "One bed."
"King size extra," Eames beams. "Only way I'll ever get both of you in bed with me."
"Would you like me to shoot him for you or do you want the honours?" Arthur asks in a surprising show of tight-lipped mirth. He takes his gun from his waistband and offers it to her.
Ariadne huffs a laugh and pushes the gun aside. "I'll just castrate him in his sleep if he tries anything."
Eames winces - incidentally, Arthur does, too, isn't that interesting - then pouts. "I'm woefully misunderstood.
Ariadne lets out an unladylike snort. "I think we understand you perfectly."
Eames grins unrepentantly. "You do, pet, you do."
Arthur, who has reverted back to tense blankness, has gone to check something on yet another laptop which leaves Ariadne time to inspect the fridge and the bed.
She's not sure what she expected, fast food, maybe, but certainly not this. It looks like Eames planned a longer stay. She finds bread, cheeses, smoked fish, cold cuts, fruit, vegetables, yoghurt. Something that looks suspiciously like chocolate mousse. She pulls it toward her, can't decipher the Finnish writing on it but sees through the translucent plastic cup - definitely chocolate mousse. "I do love a man with priorities."
Eames crosses his arms over his chest and gives Arthur a smug look.
"Speaking of priorities… " Arthur trails off meaningfully.
Ariadne stretches from her crouch in front of the fridge. It's tiny, really, compared to the ones back home. She's still impressed Eames has managed to fit as much into it as he has. Then she plonks down on the bed belly down, props her chin on her hands. "All ears," she says and pins him with a hard glare.
"We have to talk about the plan."
"As I said, I'm all ears." She doesn't plan on giving him anything right this moment. She almost got kidnapped, for God's sake, she's allowed some leeway.
"Since we're still on the dreamshare time-out Eames has proposed, we'll have to plan everything that can be done outside the dreamshare. Location, occasion, entry and exit routes."
"One of us should trail him. Find out some more background." Eames stretches, then adds as an afterthought, "I need to place the placebo and get us a sample of the antagonist."
"Do we have a time-frame?"
"We have four days left."
Ariadne extends a hand. "Remind me again why we're on such a tight schedule?"
"Because the client is. And when the client says jump, we jump." Arthur shrugs. She can't help but think that it looks a little too casual. "It's a free market," Arthur continues, "so if we want to get paid, we have to deliver on time."
"Fine." Ariadne decides to take a deep breath instead of yelling at Arthur like she wants to. Instead, she looks around her and takes in the bed, the fridge and the ficus tree.
The ficus tree. She turns to Eames with a grin. "How did you get all this here, anyway?" she asks, curious.
"Asking a magician for his tricks?" Eames wags a finger at her. "Ariadne."
"So you stole it? Or did it drop off the back of a truck?"
"The proper British phrase would use the word lorry and, no, it didn't."
"So?"
"You're not giving up, are you?"
She just raises an eyebrow at him.
"Fine," he relents, then leans forward. "It was a rather clever idea, I must say." He looks satisfied with himself and it surprises her that she doesn’t find it grating. "I had it delivered here under the ruse of wanting to surprise my soon-to-be wife. Unusual wedding gift and all that."
"In an old garage."
"The bride loves cars."
"In a dirty, oil-stained old garage."
"She's kinky."
Ariadne snorts. "I'm sure that went over well. The sales clerk was male, right?"
Eames nods, smirks.
"You had a similar Q and A with him, didn't you?"
"He was a little less nosy. Fins don't talk much."
"And you only got one bed because… "
"If I'd bought three separate beds and had them delivered to an old, rundown garage in a bad part of town, someone would have considered me a pedo and would have sent the police after me."
It is, Ariadne has to admit, rather clever. However… "Well, I'm cool with it. Is he?" she points her chin to where Arthur is inspecting the locks on the garage door.
Eames inclines his head and gives her a speculative look. "You underestimate Arthur."
Ariadne narrows her eyes. She's never heard that particular tone of voice from Eames before. Huh.
Something catches her eyes before she can brood more, though. A bag stands next to the bed. A familiar bag. She scoots over to take a closer look.
"How - " she starts and stops immediately, gliding her hand over her duffel bag.
"I fetched it from the hostel this morning. Told them I was your brother come to pick up your things after you had run off with your new boyfriend to see the beauty of Mother Russia."
"My brother."
"My range of American dialects is versatile."
She snorts. "That'll give me a mental whiplash."
"Well, of course, the ladies, and," he adds, throwing a look in Arthur's direction with a wink, "some of the gentlemen, seem to take quite a liking to the old Oxford English."
She arches a brow, curious. "You went to Oxford?"
He winks at her when he sees Arthur turn toward them across the room. "Can't tell you all my secrets now, can I? What'd happen to the mystery?"
"I could do with a little less mystery right now, thanks," she mutters and throws a dark look in Arthur's direction.
Ariadne hears Eames fight a sigh. "I really don't think he knows any more than you do," he placates.
She mulls this over for a moment and fight the initial urge to snort in derision. "Maybe, maybe not, but there's something he's not telling us."
Something flickers over Eames' face but it's replaced by a smirk before she can decipher the meaning of it. "I'm sure there are lots of things Arthur isn't telling us," Eames says in a low voice. "The number of his tailor, how he keeps the suits wrinkle-free, boxers, briefs or commando - "
"Eames!"
"Though, really," he continues and leans to the side to appraise Arthur with a put-upon leer, "the trousers hint at the answer to that question, don't they?"
"Eames!" she laughs, exasperated, and swats his arm. "Quit trying to distract me."
"Trying?" he echoes. "Are you telling me it didn't work?"
Ariadne looks at him, fighting a smile. The she leans sideways as well, gives Arthur a once-over and turns back to Eames with a dirty grin. "No. It totally worked."
Eames' laugh is resounding.
Arthur straightens, turns to them, frowns. "What?"
A phone rings and Arthur flinches as though punched.
Ariadne feels her smile slip in increments. "I thought you'd left your phone in the theatre?"
Arthur has another phone in hand, looks at it as though holding a rattlesnake. His jaw is so tense that Ariadne worries about the state of his teeth.
"I did," Arthur pushes out from between clenched teeth.
The phone stops ringing and Arthur seems to relax - to the untrained eye, it's a disguise that might work, but Ariadne has had time to watch Arthur and now sees the telltale signs, the restless, furious energy seeping from Arthur's every fibre.
"Who - " Ariadne begins but Arthur stops her with a curt, "I'll find out."
He walks out, tightly coiled tension in every step, the phone in a clenched fist.
***
Part 7: All Out Of Faith (ctd.)
All Out of Faith
The Alvar Aalto center is the perfect place to find inspiration on the Finnish style.
Of course, Ariadne's classes in college have dealt with Aalto, but it's something else altogether to be standing in front of the buildings instead of watching them on a screen or seeing them in a book. Seinäjoki, as small and unimportant as it may be, boasts one of Aalto's most important creations. The Aalto center is composed of six buildings, completed between 1960 and 1968. Their lines are clean and simple, timeless, even; they form a perfect meeting place for the administrative and cultural parts of the city's life. The fact that all buildings in the center are designed by the same architect, and were even been built in the same time period, makes Seinäjoki's architecture special, rare not only in Finland but internationally too.
Aalto designed every last detail in this area, from the gigantic Lakeuden Risti church, the Cross on the Plain, to the granite slates and dice stones on the civic square connecting the buildings. It fascinates Ariadne that one architect left his mark here so completely. Aalto's first building was the Staff building of the Civil Guard, inaugurated in 1925. The fact that most of the other buildings have been brought into existence in the same city almost 40 years later speaks of Aalto's fondness for this city. It also showcases the architect's classical period and shows the way his style evolved and…
Ariadne realises that she's geeking out and doesn't care in the least. Dream architecture is where she really sees her future but that doesn't make her immune to the great masters who have inspired her before. It's an old love affair, and one she will never be completely indifferent about. She doubts she could make either Eames or Arthur understand this completely, so she's glad she has this morning to herself. Mainly, of course, she's here to do some research she can't do online, but if she's honest, she enjoys the chance of getting out by herself and seeing this place with her own eyes. She's been afraid she'd have to leave and not see anything of the city. Arthur is a slavedriver when he wants to be, and he's been extremely tense these past few days, so she's glad he agreed to drop her off here and give her the chance to explore the area by herself. She gives him a small wave when she passes him where he's sitting by the side of the fountain with his laptop and a Styrofoam cup of coffee.
It was good to see him laugh over the Indian Food Incident, IFI, as he has started to call it to rile Eames. On her way her hostel last night, while trying to distract herself from imagining what had happened to Eames in the dream, she'd wondered if she'd ever seen Arthur give a full-blown laugh. She honestly couldn't remember. She still can't.
Maybe their company is good for him. She grins to herself, pops a sticky hard candy she bought from a street vendor earlier in her mouth and walks into the library.
The inside of it is bright without the aid of artificial light; the sloping fan-shaped window lets a lot of natural light filter in and throws heavy shadows on the curved, lowered ceiling that's only held up by a couple of slim columns. White walls and wood dominate the library but it's strangely warm nevertheless - maybe it's just the smell of books that she loves so much. Ariadne is suddenly thrown back into her childhood, into spending hours and hours curled in a comfortable chair in the college library while her mother worked her way through her PhD thesis. The libraries of her childhood had had comfortable, dark carpets and small green-shaded lamps that gave a warm glow when the light outside faded.
Seinäjoki's library boasts gleaming hardwood floors and a curved counter that makes the room almost look organic, gentle despite its otherwise stark appearance somehow. Ariadne breathes deep and looks around. There is no extraneous detail, everything is in place, both functional and beautiful without pretention. This is what architecture should be like. She can't help but snap a couple of pictures with her phone.
The librarian who entered the main reading hall behind her with an armful of books just smiles at her, obviously used to this kind of behaviour. "You'll have a better view if you move a little more to the left," she says in fluent English.
Ariadne smiles back, thanks her. She snaps another picture and, on a whim, sends it to Eames.
She receives a message in return only a few minutes later. The picture shows a half-eaten ice-cream cone and the words: "Your idea of fun, my idea of fun." Ariadne tries to fight the laughter bubbling up but fails.
The librarian smiles at her again, then points toward a sign over the entrance. No mobile phones. This time, Ariadne fights a blush and shuts the phone off quickly on a muttered apology.
***
Eames gets the call when he's just reached the very bottom of the cone and the melting remnants of hazelnut ice cream drip down his index finger.
"Yes," he answers while still licking his fingers. He lets go of his index finger with a wet, audible plop.
"I see the manners haven't improved?" a woman with a broad Fife accent asks, amused.
"But you like scoundrels, Suz," Eames smiles.
"I happen to like nice men."
They go through the Star Wars dialogue as easily as they used to years ago when they still worked together and Eames can't help smiling wider. He misses Suz sometimes. Not enough to go back, but enough to consider it from time to time.
"What can I do for you, my little jock?"
Her huff of laughter is accompanied by a burst of static through the line. "Before you keep insulting my country, better ask me what I can do for you."
"And what would that be?" The smile slips, though he still keeps the tone right. There's something about this unexpected call that he doesn't like.
"Remember the little architecture student you asked me to run a background check on a couple of months ago?"
"Vaguely?"
"Oh, give me some credit, Eames."
He rolls his shoulders. She just knows him too well, and you don't play with a woman like Suz. Even on a bad day, she could kick his arse halfway from Scotland to Wales. "Fine. Yes."
"What happened to her? Did she work with you? She's suddenly showing up on a top secret international wanted list."
Something cold trickles down Eames' back. He doesn't need to ask Suz why she called him. They have an unspoken agreement she's never once let him down on. He walks away from the crowd on the marketplace to a quieter side-street. "Do they say why?"
"They mention a connection to your current partner."
"Which list?"
"Intelligence."
"Suz."
She laughs at his tone. "Conglomerate of Japanese and US, I believe."
Damn it, Arthur.
"Did you see anything else?"
"Just her name on the list. You seemed to have taken an interest in her, so I figured I'd let you know sooner rather than later."
Eames' muscles tense all at once, he needs to get out of here immediately and find Ariadne. "Ta, Suz."
"I'm still waiting for that 1926 Macallan you promised me."
He nods, his mind already five steps away from the conversation. "When I'm in town next."
She snorts and hangs up. They both know he'll never be 'in town' again since his name and face took a prominent spot on several SIS person of interest lists. He knows he can count on her nevertheless.
Eames calls Ariadne and gets her voicemail, a short but cheerful note telling him to leave a message. He's about a twenty minute walk from the library. Too long.
It's instinct, but he's never had it fool him before and he knows that something just isn't right here.
He calls Arthur.
***
The plan was to come here to do some research on Finland and find inspiration for her design. Instead, Ariadne's intent on the book of architectural renderings, a rare edition she hasn't been able to lay her hands on in Paris, so geeked out and happy about it that she doesn't notice the two men approaching until on of them is right behind her. She smells aftershave and leather.
Ariadne frowns. She knows she demands more personal space than the average European, even after spending a year in Paris, but this guy is way too close even for European standards. She looks up from the book and starts to twist and say something to him when she feels something pushed hard into her ribs. Ariadne swipes at it, wonders if the guy tripped or is just a regular bully.
She still hasn't identified what it is when a low voice rasps in her ear. "Slow and easy. Put the book down and get up. This is a gun. It's silenced, since this is a library. If you struggle no one will hear the shot that takes you out."
Her heart skips a beat; another, then starts beating twice as forceful again. Oh, god. Her head spins as mindless panic begins to surface. The book blurs before her eyes. Oh, god, that's the muzzle of the gun, right there between her ribs. No, the silencer, she realises, picturing one from any of the innumerable movies she's seen. This is insane. It can't be happening. Not here, not now, not to her. She begins to shake. Remembers Arthur sitting in front of the library, just a couple dozen feet away, but now as good as on the other side of the ocean.
"Just come with us, miss."
"What do you - "
More pressure against her ribcage. "We don't intend to hurt you but we will. So just come with us." The man's voice is calm, much too calm for this situation.
Ariadne doesn't dare look up, but she looks to the librarian, shoots her a terrified glance only to realise that another man is talking to the librarian, drawing her attention away.
She's beginning to hyperventilate and when she does rise from her chair, her legs feel like lead. The man next to her lowers the gun when he senses her moment of weakness, clamps his hand around her wrist and it's in that moment that her half-forgotten self-defence training, from the class her mother made her take before she left for Europe, kicks in.
She's not been in the business long to know anything, much less plan an escape, but she has always been a fast thinker and a fast runner. So she ends up doing what comes naturally, what her teacher drilled into her. She rotates her thumb up and pulls her elbow toward her, effectively breaking the man's hold on her wrist. She ducks, clenches her hands around the back of the chair she'd been sitting on, then moves, lightning-quick, and lifts the chair, gets some space between her and the man, wheels around, swings and slams it into the man's face and chest with a dull thud. She's vaguely away of the spurt of blood and the groan of pain he gives, of the dismayed cry of the librarian, but all she really cares about is that for a precious few seconds, she's surprised them into motionlessness and that's when she runs.
Ariadne dodges around rows of books and students milling between the shelves, trying to cover as much ground as possible while at the same time getting out of the line of sight. The librarian shouts suddenly, tries to step in Ariadne's path, but Ariadne just shoulders her out of the way, the strength of fear at her disposal. She runs, her blood pumping, rushing in her ears so she's deaf to almost everything else. She hesitates for an agonising moment to look for Arthur. Oh, god, this can't be fucking happening, she's going to kill Arthur for not being where he said he'd be, but she has no time, no time, no fucking time, so she starts running again, shouts behind her and the heavy clattering of shoes against slate. She turns, can't stop herself just like Lot's wife and sees two men running toward her, huge steps and dark clothes and she curses, runs at full speed toward the used book carts in front of the library, dodges them at the very last second and pushes them over behind her with a crash.
***
The Seinäjoki municipal library offers free Wi-Fi and it extends to the public square around it, so Arthur sits in the sun in front of it on a bench, laptop on his knees and a paper cup of coffee next to him.
The laptop is one of many he bought for this job. He doesn't store any data on it, has everything backed up on several untraceable accounts in a Cloud. Should the laptop get stolen or should he have to leave it, it won't matter. The browser history wipes itself clean after every use and there is nothing else to leave a trace to him. It's a paranoid, expensive indulgence, but he's paid well and setting up work is never cheap. The workshop Eames showed him isn't going to be cheap, either, and Arthur knows he's paying for that, too. It feels like he's bleeding money, but he appreciates Eames' caution even if he doesn't trust his motives.
His research on the mark is long done and he's using the time he has left until he picks Ariadne up to make good on his promise to himself to dig into Eames' past a little more. It's just a precaution, so he wonders why the hell it makes him feel as guilty as it does.
Arthur's phone rings when he's just hacked his way into the third top-secret database to find information about Eames. Seeing Eames' phone-number when he's just found Eames' name on a list it shouldn't be on at all makes him flinch hard enough to knock over the coffee cup.
"Arthur, where's Ariadne?" Eames asks without waiting for Arthur to even acknowledge him. Eames' voice is clipped and tight.
"At the library, where she's - "
"Have you seen her?"
"I've seen her step into it, all geeked out about it, I'm sure - "
"Where is she, Arthur?"
Something in Eames' voice grabs Arthur by the neck with icy fingers. Eames' instinct is the one thing Arthur has never doubted. His stomach bottoms out. His scalp begins to prickle. For a long moment, his thoughts stutter to a stop, his brain fizzes like a torn electricity cable, he can't move and can't think.
"Arthur!" Eames voice snaps him out of the fugue.
Catching himself, Arthur closes the laptop with a snap. "What do you know?"
"She's not answering her phone. Do you see her?"
In a moment of relieved pissed-offness, Arthur realises that Eames is being paranoid. "She's in a library, Eames. No phones allowed."
"She knows never to switch it off completely. Just like you." Eames sounds clipped and precise now, the gentle London lilt of his voice giving way to something cold. "Do you see her?"
"Of course I don't fucking see her, Eames, I - "
He doesn't finish the sentence because right in that moment, the library's door crashes open and Ariadne comes running from it, her eye wide with panic, like a gazelle in flight. It takes no more than three seconds for two men to come running after her. Arthur sees the unmistakeable shape of gun-holsters under their jackets.
***
Voices scream angry and metal clangs against the floor but the sound of feet becomes less pronounced once Ariadne has dumped the book cart. The public square that connects the buildings of the Aalto centre is too big, though, she's never going to make it, all they need to do is shoot to take her down.
A group of teenagers crosses her path, she bumps into one of the kids when she barrels through them, hears a few universal dirty words, but her brain kicks in quickly enough that she stops and apologises, hides in the group for a few moments until someone grabs her arm and yanks her bodily way from the group. She's out of breath and exhausted from the unexpected run but still gets in an evasive manoeuvre, struggles free on a muted scream until she hears a sharp, "Ariadne!"
Arthur. She doesn't think she's ever been so happy to see him before in her life.
He pulls her into a small alley between the library and the theatre, then guides her up to the doors of the theatre. The entrance hall is empty, save for the staff members setting up signs for the annual summer theatre event.
A voice asks a question out of nowhere, nothing but a jumble of vowels and Ariadne flinches when a staffer suddenly stands in her way with a half-questioning, half-smiling face.
She nods out of instinct, out of breath, even if she has no real clue what the question was. Nodding is always good, right? She trusts Arthur. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees people running and pointing outside. She spots a sign she hopes is leading to a stage and gestures for Arthur to follow her.
Arthur says something to the staffer while Ariadne's already starting up the stairs, and soon, his steps echo on the staircase and he's beside her again.
"First door on the left," she says.
The stage is small and dark, offers no place to hide and a group of what Ariadne guesses are students rehearsing for a play. Several look up once, but the rest ignore Arthur and Ariadne completely, too engrossed in their play. Their presence is dismissed almost immediately.
She's ready to run out again to find some kind of damn broom cupboard to hide in when Arthur pulls her with him, to the front row of the theatre, then between the benches. He drops, first to a crouch, gestures to the one student who does look down, places his index finger over his lips and Ariadne hopes that the dreadlocked boy will understand.
The next thing she knows is that Arthur throws a last look to the stage-room's door and then stretches out so he's lying between the benches. She shoots him an incredulous look, her mind supplies uselessly that he looks pale against the dark carpet and black leather seats, then the door creaks and she goes down without thinking, lands half on top of Arthur, half to his side. His hand slides around her waist to steady her, his grip stronger than necessary. He catches her gaze, holds it and wills her to be quiet with just the thinning of his lips. She doesn't need to be told that, though it is difficult to calm her breathing. She tries to hold her breath, realises she can't because her lungs burn and scream at her, then tries to breathe as quietly as possible, all the while looking at Arthur rather than the seats around him.
The door flies open with a bang and the rehearsal on the stage stops. Ariadne winces, reaches for Arthur, claws her hand into his shoulder and wonders if he went mad. They'll find them here if just one of the students rats them out. She swears her breathing is too loud, there's no way her pursuers won’t hear it. They’ll catch her because she can’t calm the fuck down and all her damn running will have been for nothing. She's not going to faint, she won't, but blood is pumping so fast in her veins that she has trouble concentrating on anything else, close enough to a panic attack that she can already taste it, the repugnant smack of stained steel.
Arthur shakes his head minutely, keeps holding her gaze, holding her steady, and she holds on to that gaze like a lifeline, drowns out the sounds and concentrates on nothing but the shape and colour of his eyes, the first fine lines around them, the length of his lashes. It's better than listening to the screaming panic that's trying to drown over her. She ends up cataloguing all the points of contact between their bodies just to distract herself though, just to fight down the need to scream.
His body cushions her and his arm holds her tight. His hand - slim, she knows, because she's stared at his long pianist's fingers in moments of fatigue - is pressed just over her waist, thumb bruising the skin over her lowest rib. In this position, she feels his breathing, his chest going up to meet hers. He controls his breathing, too. Sweat glistens at his temple and a single drop rolls into his hair. He's been sitting outside in the sun and a fine dusting of freckles spans the bridge of his nose. She smells fresh sweat, soap, hair gel and sun-warmed skin, mingling with her own deodorant and the body lotion she put on this morning.
Footsteps echo in the stage room, muted by the carpet. Ariadne squeezes her eyes shut to quell the panic that tears at her like a wild animal. When her heart feels like it's beating its way clean out of her chest, she lets out her breath in a silent whoosh and tries to listen through the rush of her pounding heartbeat. Are those foots steps coming down to the stage?
Ariadne freezes when the same voice that has threatened her in the library speaks. "Pardon my interruption. Have any of you seen a young woman, dark hair, jeans and cardigan, and a bright red scarf around her neck?"
Her hand instinctively goes to her scarf but Arthur pulls her closer against him, shifts her to the side so his body is covering hers. Her head comes to rest on the ground and something rolls away. Cold wetness seeps into her hair. Spilled drink. Ariadne fights a shudder of disgust. She slides her arm around Arthur, under his jacket to hold onto him more tightly, to disappear under him and as she does, her fingers come in contact with his shoulder-holster and the body-warm metal of his gun. She freezes, then traces the outline of the gun with her fingertips, drawing a measure of calm from the knowledge of its existence.
One of the student actors replies in heavily accented English. "Why do you want to find her?"
Ariadne can hear the fake suave smile in the man's voice. "She's my niece and we became separated - I thought she might have wandered in here. She's fond of the theatre. And of Aalto's designs."
"Just her?" the student asks and Ariadne's heart skips a beat. She hasn't seen the student's reaction to Arthur's plea for silence.
"It's just the two of us admiring the sights," Suave Voice agrees.
Ariadne clutches at Arthur, her sweaty fingers no doubt wrinkling his usually impeccable jacket. He presses his palm against her shoulder, warmth and comfort and a silent command to remain still and quiet. But, oh god, what if the next thing she hears is that student telling Suave Voice she is in the aisle between the seats here!?
Arthur shifts against her a little, to find a better position should he have to fight, or so Ariadne guesses. She feels all the hard lines of his body pressing her to the floor. His belt-buckle digs into her hip. His leg slides between hers and she is suddenly, acutely aware of the way her body reacts to his proximity. Adrenaline, she thinks. Nothing but adrenaline. Her scalp prickles as she waits for the student's answer. The wetness from the puddle of soda she must be lying in spreads through her hair.
The footsteps come closer still. Ariadne squeezes her eyes shut even tighter than before. She's beginning to see stars, hates the way she shakes like a leaf not only from fear but from disgust, too. Her fingers circle around Arthur's gun faster. She wonders if she could draw it should push come to shove.
"Dark-haired, you said?" the student asks again, sounding thoughtful.
This is it. He's going to rat them out any second now. Ariadne clenches her hand around the gun and Arthur glides his own hand around to cover hers. The whispered, "Don't," is nothing but a ghost of a sound coming to rest against her forehead on an exhalation. Her hand goes slack. His breath skitters into her hair. Fast.
"Yes. Dark and wavey. You'd remember her, she's pretty."
Ariadne's skin crawls.
Appreciative laughter comes from the English-speaking student, along with a few words in Finnish, sounding amused.
"Sorry, there were two blond American girls who came through an hour ago, but I haven't seen anyone else." A spat of Finnish switches back and forth between the speaker and some of the other actors, before he adds in English again. "None of us have."
Seconds trickle by. Maybe minutes. Ariadne loses track of time. She lifts her head slightly when she hears no more footsteps. They're not out of harm's way yet, but she is getting sick of the fear flooding her system, of the helplessness of the wait.
"Thank you," Suave Voice says, "and I apologise again for the interruption." He doesn't move away yet, though.
When she opens her eyes again, they're in line with Arthur's collarbone. The pulse at his neck jumps and the knot of his tie is too close to his Adam's apple, bobbing up and down; the glossy silk must be strangling him. They may have to run again if the thugs really aren't gone. Arthur can't run if he chokes, right? She extracts her hand from under his and moves it up his chest to his tie.
"Be sure to come back and see the performance with your... niece."
Arthur's gaze snaps to hers and this time, something else is there besides the warning. His pupils widen as she runs her fingertip under the knot of the tie and the back of her hand brushes against his chin, meets skin prickly with a hint of stubble. It's as if his scent changes right there and then. A hint of musk mingles with the smells she caught from him earlier. Something flickers through his eyes. Her gaze drops when she feels warm breath against her face. His lips part ever so slightly and she finds herself staring at his mouth while she still runs her fingertip along the space between his skin and the silk.
"O! let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven; keep me in temper; I would not be mad!"
Ariadne twitches back as the loud recital starts, bumps her head into the row of seats next to her. Faintly, she hears the theatre's door click closed. She drops her head against the carpet, moves her hand to her forehead, swipes her hair back and watches her hand shake so badly she wonders if she'll ever draw again.
Arthur extricates himself from her and sits up, then rests a warm hand against her cheek. His hand spans almost the entire side of her face. "All right?"
She shakes her head, feels the palm of his hand slide against her skin. "No." Wetness trickles down the back of her neck. "But let's get out of here right now."
They wave to the theatre students as they exit, earning smiles and wishes of good luck. Perhaps the students think they're star-crossed lovers. Ariadne wonders if that would be better than the truth: dreamers on the run from thugs. Both options seem to have strong odds of ending in tragedy.
***
Arthur makes Ariadne change into a promo shirt for the summer theatre event, warm orange with a big print of As You Like It over the back and chest, same as the student actors are wearing, and that's for sale in the lobby. Arthur doesn't change his appearance, the kidnappers never saw him thanks to the student's help. It's just Ariadne who needs a makeover. Her hair is a dripping, sticky mess where she’s rolled into a puddle of spilled soda, so he makes her put up her hair and put on a black fedora he finds in the costume pool, and only then do they venture downstairs. As an afterthought, he runs his hands through his hair and ruffles it, distinguishes it from the neat slicked-back state. Ariadne, now more calm, quirks her lips.
Arthur still has no clue who tried to snatch Ariadne or why, but he's not naïve enough to believe this was just a random attack, even if Ariadne obviously does. The men were far too professional for that. Real thugs would have used their guns, wouldn't have cared about witnesses.
On the off chance that either of their phones are tapped he crushes his SIM card underneath his heel and dumps his phone in the theatre's dustbin. The laptop he left submerged in the pool next to the library earlier.
They'll have to contact Eames. Arthur's sure the workshop hasn't been and won't be found, or Eames never would have suggested to set up shop there in the first place. As little but alarming as what he found out during his all too brief check on Eames is, the only thing it hasn't accomplished is to make Arthur mistrust Eames' professionalism.
He's wondering about his own, though. As he walks down the theatre's stairs with Ariadne close by, he remembers her hands underneath his tie, the way his body reacted to her proximity. The worry that came like a stab to the gut when Eames called earlier should have been enough to tip him off, but what happened in the auditorium only confirms it - he's in over his head. He's no longer drawing the line between professional and personal and he wonders when it'll impair his judgement like it did Dom's, when it'll endanger them all.
The square outside appears clear, so they venture outside in a group of students in shirts identical to Ariadne's. Ariadne stays close to him, crushing his hand in a fierce grip. She doesn't need a protector, she's handled her escape pretty well by herself, but the trusting gesture still makes his stomach do a slow-motion roll.
They both squint against the sunlight and Arthur scans the square, certain that the kidnappers haven't given up. He tugs Ariadne closer against him and winds his arm around her shoulder. The fedora brushes his arm before her hip does.
They only get a couple of steps before Ariadne tenses and says, "Over there. Quick, give me a kiss."
He barely has enough time to raise his eyebrow at her when she leans up to him, on her tiptoes. Her hand comes to rest on his neck and she pulls him down and pushes herself up at the same time. Her lips press against his and this isn't anything like his playful tease during the Fischer job. Ariadne is demanding like a force of nature, no holds barred. She nips at his lower lip and Arthur feels the zing of it go straight to his toes. She tastes of fear and unpredictable electricity. He struggles against the quagmire of need that tries to pull him under and keeps his eyes open, catches the fedora before it slips from her head, shields her with it. Despite his body's reaction to her, despite wanting nothing but to lose himself in the taste and smell of her for just a few seconds, he catches sight of the kidnappers over the fedora's rim and evaluates.
They stare at them, open and blank, as though they hadn't expected Arthur. He fights a groan when Ariadne licks against the seam of his lips, lost in the distraction, but he can't close his eyes and back her up against the next wall like he wants to because the kidnappers come into full view now. Ariadne feels his tension and slows the kiss, leaves it at a faint pressure.
Arthur knows for sure now that the people who tried to snatch Ariadne aren't just thugs. There's something in the way they're holding themselves that screams training and wariness. They're fading back against the town hall already, nearly disappearing in the shadows. Arthur moves his mouth from Ariadne's lips to her neck and looks at the two kidnappers fully. He makes sure they see his gesture when he takes Ariadne's hand and leads it to his shoulder holster, pushing aside his suit jacket just enough so the straps and the hint of leather are visible even from the distance. Ariadne's breath stutters as her hand touches the Glock's butt. He hushes her, grabs her waist a little tighter.
It's a sharp moment of understanding when he meets the kidnappers gazes, clear and precise. If you want her, you'll have to get past me.
Both men nod and vanish in the shadows.
Arthur exhales against Ariadne's neck, slow and measured, rebuilding the control that slipped from him half an hour ago. He extricates himself from her and presses the fedora back on her head so it doesn't slip. He looks away from her lips, from the smeared gloss that he now knows tastes of mint.
"We're clear."
***
People mill to their left and right, visitors to the Tango festival, and a chatter of various languages floats around them as they push through the crowd.
"Where are we - "
"Not back to the hostel. They'll know where you're staying and will try again."
Ariadne stops abruptly in front of a shop window. "Who are they exactly?"
Arthur gives a careful shrug as he looks at the cutlery and porcelain on display in a window. She's doesn't suspect anything beyond a random attack yet, and he's not inclined to voice his suspicions to her. "Thugs?" he ventures.
"Thugs who know where I'm staying," she says and he can hear the raised eyebrow without needing to see it. "Thugs who're using silencers." She grabs his arm, turns him to face her. Her fingers bite through his suit jacket. "Give me some credit."
He exhales, reaches for her elbow. "Not here."
The street around them is bustling with people, but he's not sure if they're safe even so.
"Don't think I'll let you off the hook."
Arthur twitches a sardonic smile. "I'm counting on it."
***
They drive out of the city into what Ariadne can only describe as the middle of nowhere. The time in the car is spent in tense, utter silence; Arthur hasn't even turned on the radio. His knuckles on the wheel are white, his posture tense, and a frown is firm between his brows. Ariadne hasn't asked again where they're going, as it's obvious that their destination is going to be a hiding place. She's left to her own thoughts and realises that she should have expected danger when she took this job. She just hadn't expected the danger to be here, in real life. During the Fischer job, the only real danger had been in the dream, not outside of it. Not for her, anyway; it's easy to forget that Cobb could have been facing arrest as soon as he stepped through Customs at LAX. Things are different now. After today, this job isn't the same anymore. Arthur still hasn't divulged who tried to kidnap her, even though she's sure he has a very good idea. Later, she thinks. Later.
Arthur pulls into a dirt road that's overgrown with weeds. Carelessly thrown away trash flutters in the wind and the windows of the grey, industrial-like building Arthur drives up to are broken. It could be an old mill or a service station for farm engines that was abandoned years ago. Nothing here looks like it could be their destination, but Arthur kills the engine, gets out and guides her to a rusty metal door, raps his fingers on it and waits.
Ariadne shoots him a questioning look, but he doesn't answer. The hat itches on her head, her hair underneath will be a mess now the soda in it is dry. Sweat cools on her skin and she feels dirty and wants nothing but a shower. Just a little longer now. She remembers the shower in Arthur's hotel room and looks forward to going there once this little detour is over.
The door opens with a hoarse creak. Ariadne is relieved to see the face which appears behind it. Eames scans the road behind them, then pins Arthur with a look. "I take it you lost them?"
"Would I have come here otherwise?"
Eames steps aside, opens the door farther, while making a sweeping gesture toward the inside. "Well, then. Honeys, you're home."
Arthur brushes past him with an ease that clearly suggests that he's been here before and Ariadne follows more carefully.
"You have another five minutes to tell me what the hell is going on here and who 'they' are," Ariadne states with the first breath of dusty, too-warm air she takes in the factory workshop, "or I'm out of here."
"Where to, exactly?" Eames asks with a smirk that isn't friendly. "And how?"
The car keys dangle from Arthur's fingers.
Ariadne breathes against the need to yell in frustration. "I just got away from a kidnapping attempt. I think you owe me the damn courtesy to tell me what you know." God, the soda itches on her scalp.
"We don't know yet, Ariadne," Arthur says, his voice carefully neutral. "We're not sure if they really were after you or trying to get to us."
"Bullshit."
Arthur shrugs, his demeanour icy. "Believe what you want. It's all I have." He doesn't offer any more, instead turns on his heels and goes to check the exits.
"God," Ariadne huffs when Arthur's out of the room. "He's one cold bastard when he wants to be."
She expects Eames to agree with her, but he looks thoughtful instead. "What?" she asks.
Eames shakes his head slowly. "Don't knock it. We all cope with stress differently. This is his way."
"What, shutting down all emotions like a damn robot?"
"Would you prefer him to throw a screaming mimi of a fit?" Eames asks, and he sounds a little more agitated than Ariadne expects. Again, she wonders if she understands the situation at all, but that's their fault for being secretive bastards.
"No-oh?" she says, dragging out the word. What the hell?
Eames catches her raised eyebrows, relaxes. "Sorry. Wrong time and place, I know." He smiles and holds up his hands palms up. "All I'm saying is, don't ask him to give up his coping mechanisms, Ariadne. A guy as tightly wrapped as Arthur will unravel if you start undoing his knots."
She lets his words sink in and knows on an intellectual level that he's right. The other part of her, however, wants to know what an unravelled Arthur will look like and she can't help the quiver of anticipation.
"Don't," Eames warns.
Caught red-handed, she crosses her arms over her chest and looks toward the dirty window. Eames reads people far too easily.
"Would you like a tour?" Eames asks in an obvious but welcome attempt to break the tension and Ariadne looks around her for the first time.
The inside of the building - it looks more like a garage than a factory workshop now - is large but surprisingly tidy. The windows are high up but let enough light filter in to make extra lights unnecessary.
She spots a huge bed in the corner, secure between two walls, giving it the perfect view of both small windows and the door to the garage. She does a double-take when she spots a ficus tree standing next to it. She shoots Eames an amused look. Arthur must have had a fit when he first saw that and she has a feeling that that's exactly the reason Eames put it there.
A low hum directs her attention to another object - a fridge.
Ariadne turns back again, raises at eyebrow at Eames.
"Creature comforts," he says with a shrug. "We'll be spending a good four days here, prepping and dreaming. I know Arthur has a soft spot for them, but I won't spend five days dreaming in rickety lawn chairs. Call me a hedonist."
Ariadne finds herself agreeing with the sentiment. One things stops her short, though. "One bed."
"King size extra," Eames beams. "Only way I'll ever get both of you in bed with me."
"Would you like me to shoot him for you or do you want the honours?" Arthur asks in a surprising show of tight-lipped mirth. He takes his gun from his waistband and offers it to her.
Ariadne huffs a laugh and pushes the gun aside. "I'll just castrate him in his sleep if he tries anything."
Eames winces - incidentally, Arthur does, too, isn't that interesting - then pouts. "I'm woefully misunderstood.
Ariadne lets out an unladylike snort. "I think we understand you perfectly."
Eames grins unrepentantly. "You do, pet, you do."
Arthur, who has reverted back to tense blankness, has gone to check something on yet another laptop which leaves Ariadne time to inspect the fridge and the bed.
She's not sure what she expected, fast food, maybe, but certainly not this. It looks like Eames planned a longer stay. She finds bread, cheeses, smoked fish, cold cuts, fruit, vegetables, yoghurt. Something that looks suspiciously like chocolate mousse. She pulls it toward her, can't decipher the Finnish writing on it but sees through the translucent plastic cup - definitely chocolate mousse. "I do love a man with priorities."
Eames crosses his arms over his chest and gives Arthur a smug look.
"Speaking of priorities… " Arthur trails off meaningfully.
Ariadne stretches from her crouch in front of the fridge. It's tiny, really, compared to the ones back home. She's still impressed Eames has managed to fit as much into it as he has. Then she plonks down on the bed belly down, props her chin on her hands. "All ears," she says and pins him with a hard glare.
"We have to talk about the plan."
"As I said, I'm all ears." She doesn't plan on giving him anything right this moment. She almost got kidnapped, for God's sake, she's allowed some leeway.
"Since we're still on the dreamshare time-out Eames has proposed, we'll have to plan everything that can be done outside the dreamshare. Location, occasion, entry and exit routes."
"One of us should trail him. Find out some more background." Eames stretches, then adds as an afterthought, "I need to place the placebo and get us a sample of the antagonist."
"Do we have a time-frame?"
"We have four days left."
Ariadne extends a hand. "Remind me again why we're on such a tight schedule?"
"Because the client is. And when the client says jump, we jump." Arthur shrugs. She can't help but think that it looks a little too casual. "It's a free market," Arthur continues, "so if we want to get paid, we have to deliver on time."
"Fine." Ariadne decides to take a deep breath instead of yelling at Arthur like she wants to. Instead, she looks around her and takes in the bed, the fridge and the ficus tree.
The ficus tree. She turns to Eames with a grin. "How did you get all this here, anyway?" she asks, curious.
"Asking a magician for his tricks?" Eames wags a finger at her. "Ariadne."
"So you stole it? Or did it drop off the back of a truck?"
"The proper British phrase would use the word lorry and, no, it didn't."
"So?"
"You're not giving up, are you?"
She just raises an eyebrow at him.
"Fine," he relents, then leans forward. "It was a rather clever idea, I must say." He looks satisfied with himself and it surprises her that she doesn’t find it grating. "I had it delivered here under the ruse of wanting to surprise my soon-to-be wife. Unusual wedding gift and all that."
"In an old garage."
"The bride loves cars."
"In a dirty, oil-stained old garage."
"She's kinky."
Ariadne snorts. "I'm sure that went over well. The sales clerk was male, right?"
Eames nods, smirks.
"You had a similar Q and A with him, didn't you?"
"He was a little less nosy. Fins don't talk much."
"And you only got one bed because… "
"If I'd bought three separate beds and had them delivered to an old, rundown garage in a bad part of town, someone would have considered me a pedo and would have sent the police after me."
It is, Ariadne has to admit, rather clever. However… "Well, I'm cool with it. Is he?" she points her chin to where Arthur is inspecting the locks on the garage door.
Eames inclines his head and gives her a speculative look. "You underestimate Arthur."
Ariadne narrows her eyes. She's never heard that particular tone of voice from Eames before. Huh.
Something catches her eyes before she can brood more, though. A bag stands next to the bed. A familiar bag. She scoots over to take a closer look.
"How - " she starts and stops immediately, gliding her hand over her duffel bag.
"I fetched it from the hostel this morning. Told them I was your brother come to pick up your things after you had run off with your new boyfriend to see the beauty of Mother Russia."
"My brother."
"My range of American dialects is versatile."
She snorts. "That'll give me a mental whiplash."
"Well, of course, the ladies, and," he adds, throwing a look in Arthur's direction with a wink, "some of the gentlemen, seem to take quite a liking to the old Oxford English."
She arches a brow, curious. "You went to Oxford?"
He winks at her when he sees Arthur turn toward them across the room. "Can't tell you all my secrets now, can I? What'd happen to the mystery?"
"I could do with a little less mystery right now, thanks," she mutters and throws a dark look in Arthur's direction.
Ariadne hears Eames fight a sigh. "I really don't think he knows any more than you do," he placates.
She mulls this over for a moment and fight the initial urge to snort in derision. "Maybe, maybe not, but there's something he's not telling us."
Something flickers over Eames' face but it's replaced by a smirk before she can decipher the meaning of it. "I'm sure there are lots of things Arthur isn't telling us," Eames says in a low voice. "The number of his tailor, how he keeps the suits wrinkle-free, boxers, briefs or commando - "
"Eames!"
"Though, really," he continues and leans to the side to appraise Arthur with a put-upon leer, "the trousers hint at the answer to that question, don't they?"
"Eames!" she laughs, exasperated, and swats his arm. "Quit trying to distract me."
"Trying?" he echoes. "Are you telling me it didn't work?"
Ariadne looks at him, fighting a smile. The she leans sideways as well, gives Arthur a once-over and turns back to Eames with a dirty grin. "No. It totally worked."
Eames' laugh is resounding.
Arthur straightens, turns to them, frowns. "What?"
A phone rings and Arthur flinches as though punched.
Ariadne feels her smile slip in increments. "I thought you'd left your phone in the theatre?"
Arthur has another phone in hand, looks at it as though holding a rattlesnake. His jaw is so tense that Ariadne worries about the state of his teeth.
"I did," Arthur pushes out from between clenched teeth.
The phone stops ringing and Arthur seems to relax - to the untrained eye, it's a disguise that might work, but Ariadne has had time to watch Arthur and now sees the telltale signs, the restless, furious energy seeping from Arthur's every fibre.
"Who - " Ariadne begins but Arthur stops her with a curt, "I'll find out."
He walks out, tightly coiled tension in every step, the phone in a clenched fist.
***
Part 7: All Out Of Faith (ctd.)