The Trembling Of The Migratory Birds - Part 12: Aquarium Café (ctd.)
Aquarium Café (ctd.)
Arthur doesn't let go of her arm until they're all in the warehouse. His hand bites into her skin, her muscles. She tries to ignore it, is too high on adrenaline, on the rush of success and danger and relief.
She lets out a whoop when the door falls shut behind them but it dies on her lips when Arthur whirls her around so she's nose to nose with him.
"What the hell, Ariadne?"
A fine sheen on sweat glistens on his upper lip. His jaw is tense and, absurdly, she is reminded of the nutcrackers her mother always brings out for Christmas. She can't help the grin spreading over her face or the giggle that escapes her.
They made it and he looks like one of her mother's nutcrackers and, hell, maybe she is hysterical but she can't stop it.
She ignores the flash of warning in his eyes and only realises that she's gone too far when he grabs her chin, forceful, tight.
"This is funny to you?" he hisses and grips her chin tighter, fingers pressing against bone, sharp blossoms of pain. "Funny?" he repeats.
Her heart slams against her ribcage, she tastes the beats on her tongue. Arthur's eyes are dark. She knows her own must be wide, she feels like the proverbial deer in headlights and hates the onrush of weakness when she was still so strong just seconds ago, hates the shock.
It's Eames who breaks the tension. "Easy there," he says amicably, placing a hand on Arthur's shoulder.
Ariadne feels the tension in Arthur accelerate, sees the flash of rage cross his face. She doesn't have time to warn Eames, can only watch as Arthur whips around, fist shooting forward and connecting with Eames' face with a sickening noise.
Eames gives a surprised grunt of pain and stumbles backward on the bed, carried by the punch's momentum. Arthur follows, tense as a bowstring, hands raised, ready to throw another punch, but just as his knees hit the bed next to Eames, Eames catches Arthur's fist, twists it behind his back hard enough he's about to dislocate Arthur's shoulder and slings him down on the bed too. He uses his greater weight and strength and Arthur's exhaustion to hold him there until Arthur goes still under him.
"I suggest you take a deep breath," Eames says in a tone Ariadne has never heard from him before, "and reassess your strategy."
Arthur's shoulderblades move under the leather of his jacket. He forcibly relaxes his posture, unclenches his fists slowly.
Ariadne dares to take the first breath she has in what feels like minutes. The tension in the air sears her lungs and she can't help but notice that Eames has his full body pressed against Arthur. She shuts down her inappropriate thoughts.
Arthur murmurs something into the mattress, and Eames lets go of him. "Much better," he murmurs and rolls to the side.
Arthur moves so fast it's a blur, but the fight, the punch she expects doesn't come. Instead, Arthur rises from his crouch and walks toward the bathroom so fast it looks as though he's running. Ariadne sees his pupils are dilated - his eyes look black. He leaves the door open; she hears water running into the sink, then splashing, and a subdued, "Fuck."
Arthur stays in the bathroom. A lot of water goes down the drain.
Ariadne reaches a shaky hand to pull a chair closer, then remembers Eames and the punch Arthur landed. She lets go of the chair and walks to the bed instead.
The gun peaking from Eames' waistband glistens dull in the odd light of the Finnish night.
Eames hasn't moved since Arthur rose. His eyes are closed, his chest rises and falls fast. The pulse on his neck jumps. A trickle of blood is drying in his stubble.
"Sit down, love," he says suddenly, startling her. He pats his hand against the mattress.
She sits without thinking just as the water in the bathroom is shut off.
Eames' leg is a strip of warmth against her leg.
She's quiet for a minute before it bursts out of her, "What the hell just happened?"
Eames doesn't have time to answer because Arthur reappears in the workshop and walks stiffly to the chair Ariadne moved earlier.
He sits, bends forward, elbows on his thighs, hands clasped and dangling just under his knees. His breathing is slow, measured, controlled. Drops of water cling to his face, some collect on his eyelashes and glisten in the light that still hasn't faded despite the late hour. He looks out the window but Ariadne wonders if he sees anything.
Again it's Eames who makes the first move. The creaking of the bed hangs loud in the room and her hand shoots out to clench around his wrist. "Don't." She's not going to admit it out loud, but Arthur's unexpected display of violence has shaken her to the core.
Eames twitches a smile, peels her fingers from his wrist and curls his own around her hand, engulfs it in heat. He squeezes, once, but doesn't say anything.
She nods, closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. The next thing she hears is the quiet snap of the factory's gate closing.
When she opens her eyes again, Arthur still hasn't moved. She itches to ask what the fuck is wrong with him, wants to punch him for scaring her, for snapping her damn neck in the dream, and at the same time wants to rest a hand on his shoulder to offer sympathy. She doesn't get up, however. Just watches, barely daring to breathe as a drop of water slips from his eyelashes and falls to the concrete floor.
He looks up then, catches her gaze and this time, she does stop breathing. What she sees…
The door swings open and the moment is lost. Arthur lowers his head again.
Eames walks in, swift and sure as though he owns the large factory workshop. A bottle dangles from his fingertips. He unscrews it with an audible break, then holds it out to her.
"Eames," she starts, but he shushes her.
"We all need it."
She takes the bottle. To her surprise, the alcohol doesn't burn its way down her throat as she takes a deep swig.
Vodka. A good, smooth Finnish one, but not cold enough. She wrinkles her nose in disgust but lets the warmth spread through her chest, takes another swig, then hands the bottle back to Eames.
He quirks his lips, doesn't wipe the bottle's mouth, and takes a swig of his own. With the alcohol warming her cheeks as well, she watches his throat work as he swallows.
Out of the corner of her eye she sees Arthur move, something she would have missed had she only gone by sound. Arthur is quiet as a cat.
He stands next to Eames, his hand extended toward the bottle.
Eames watches him over the tipped-up bottle's neck before he lets the bottle sink and holds it out toward Arthur.
It's between them for long seconds. Their gazes meet and once again the tension in the garage is thick enough to be cut with a knife.
Arthur takes the bottle eventually, closes his eyes and puts it to his lips. He tips his head back and drinks as one would drink water, one deep gulp after another.
Ariadne's eyes go wide as she watches the content of the bottle rapidly dwindle away.
Eames steps forward, intent on stopping Arthur, but Arthur retreats, keeps drinking.
Eames moves fast, then, grabs the bottle. "That's quite enough, pet," he says and pries the bottle from Arthur's death-grip on it.
Arthur doesn't let go, so the vodka sloshes over his chin and shirt when Eames finally manages to pull the bottle away.
Ariadne crosses her arms over her chest. "Explain," she demands. "Somebody explain what the hell is going on here."
Arthur slumps on the bed, head in his hands. She doesn't wait for an answer from him.
"Eames." Her tone is cutting, the alcohol helps. "What are you not telling me?"
"Ignorance is - "
She takes a threatening step forward, closes her hand around the bottleneck. "If you finish that sentence, I swear I'll smash the bottle in your face."
" - is a dangerous thing," Eames finishes, unperturbed by her outbreak. He slides her fingers off the bottle and sets it down on the dirty floor. "You deserve to know."
So he tells her.
From the corner of her eyes, Ariadne sees Arthur retrieving the bottle and sipping from it while Eames fills her in. One gulp, two, three; his throat is working, the movement of his adam's apple mesmerizing her.
Eames tells her what she hopes is everything. About the strange clients and how they turned out to be intelligence. At that part of Eames' tale, Arthur twitches momentarily and looks up, but then only nods, tired. He runs his left hand through his hair and Ariadne sees blood on it, blood from dozens of small cuts. Ariadne frowns. Must be from the glass that rained down on him in the café. She looks toward Eames, but he must have seen it, too, because he stops his tale momentarily and slips into the bathroom only to return seconds later with a bottle of iodine and some toilet paper. He sets it on the ground next to the bed and continues talking.
Eames tells her more. About Saarela and his program and the interest the intelligence agencies have in it. About a woman named Katya and the underworld bounty she told Eames was on Ariadne's head. About the way the program file and decryption key they have on the flashdrive is the only copy in existence.
"And the upload failed?"
Arthur nods again. He doesn't look up.
Ariadne takes a deep breath and rests the back of her hand against her forehead. "So that means we're on international wanted lists of at least three intelligence agencies now." She lifts her other hand and counts her fingers. "Also, there's a bounty on my head and the only thing that might save us is this flashdrive. If we manage to get out of the country to upload it somewhere and make it go live." Her head swims as the enormity of that sinks in. She breathes out, slow. "Tell me you have more vodka."
Eames slants a look at Arthur, then produces another, smaller bottle from the fridge, more of a hipflask-sample size and hands it to her. She up-ends it, knowing it'll knock her off her feet and not caring. If there ever has been a moment that warranted being absolutely stupidly drunk, this is it.
"I'm surprised you're not freaking out more," Eames admits, pulling the empty bottle from her hand.
"You just see the exterior," she answers, her voice smooth and clear despite the alcohol still burning her throat. "Give me a day to digest and come up with ways to kick both your asses to the moon and back."
Eames tenses at this and she can see that he already opens his mouth for a retort, but to Ariadne's surprise, Arthur looks up at Eames and shakes his head minutely. Eames closes his mouth again, but his jaw works.
She wants to. God, does she want to. She also knows it won't do her any good, because these two men are all she has right now, her only chance to get out of this alive. They essentially took away her life as she knows it. But if she's honest with herself, she doesn't know if she can hate them for it. She hasn't felt the same in Paris since the Fischer job. She jumped at Arthur's offer.
"I don't get it, either," Arthur says, his voice made unsteady by the alcohol but his gaze on her is hard. "You almost died. We almost died. I fucking almost got all of us killed."
"We're here," Eames says, gentle as though calming a spooked animal. "We made it out, alive and successful." He dabs an iodine swab on a glass cut on Arthur's hand. Arthur flinches.
"How can you take all of this in stride?" Arthur turns from Ariadne to Eames. She can see that the look is meant to be stern but falls short somewhere around confused. Or maybe worried. But worried about what?
"What makes you think we are?" Eames asks, his voice dark and raw as he finishes cleaning the cuts on Arthur's arm. Ariadne sees that Eames' fingertips linger just a little longer than strictly necessary. There's a tension in Eames that matches her own. The adrenaline from the fight and the narrow escape is still coursing through their systems. Unlike Arthur, neither of them have vented the overload. It crawls underneath her skin, skitters up and down, trying to break free.
"I told you not to dabble in this," Eames says, sounding sad, and Ariadne knows suddenly that she's missing most of the background of the story Eames has just told her. Too much to be informed about now when they're all teetering on the edge, so she fights the urge to inquire.
To do something, she reaches out a hand to take the bloodied swabs from Eames but shifts her weight wrong, puts too much of it on her left foot and hisses through her teeth. Pain shoots through her, sharp and hot.
Both Eames' and Arthur's gazes snap up to her.
"What's wrong?"
"Ankle," she says, clenching her teeth against the pain. The alcohol subdued the pain until now, but her weight aggravates it all over again.
"Sit," Eames says.
She complies without protest. He pulls off her shoe, then her socks, then Eames' warm, careful hands are on her heel and calf, fingers testing heat and swelling. It hurts, but at the same time, she's electrically aware of his touch as well, and slightly distracted. Her thoughts are still racing with left over adrenaline.
"Feels worse than it is," Eames says when he lets go of her ankle. "Probably sprained."
Ariadne bites the inside of her cheek. It's one thing to be injured in a dream when you can just wake up and be fine, but this? This is reality, and reality hurts like a bitch.
"An icepack would be ideal, but I'm afraid you'll have to go without."
Of course. She's seen their fridge, it doesn't have an icebox compartment. She closes her eyes and groans. "Then give me the bottle." She all but snaps her fingers in Eames' direction.
He huffs a laugh. "Won't do you much good anymore."
Oh, right. Arthur. And herself. She flops back on the mattress, her calves hanging over the edge of the bed. "Just great. No ice, no booze, and not even someone to kiss it better."
Distant thunder rumbles outside and she drifts, lulled by the sound of rain on the garage's tin roof and by the alcohol swirling in her system.
She blames the latter for not noticing the touch on her foot for what it is earlier.
"I'm sorry," she hears and the sound of Arthur's voice is so raw that she can't help but open her eyes and lift her head to look at him.
"I'm sorry about this," he murmurs again - and presses his lips to her instep.
She sits up abruptly and Arthur's fingers slide from her ankle. Quick, sharp pain has her clenching her teeth on a hiss. What the hell is he apologising for? For hurting her? For getting her involved in all this? She knows he wouldn't, hell, he shouldn't apologise for that, because after all, getting involved was her choice.
Arthur reaches up to where he grabbed her chin earlier, his hand twitching forward but stopping in mid-movement. "I'm - "
"Stop." Ariadne stops his words with her index, ring and middle finger over his lips. "Just stop." His lips are warm under her fingertips. "You can't control everything."
She presses her fingertips tighter against his mouth when she feels him trying to respond. She can handle him snapping, and she can handle him going through the aftermath of it, but she cannot... she cannot handle him apologising, because if he's human, if he's weak now, what the hell does that make her?
"I'm just glad you told me everything now," she tells him, and it's the closest she can get to telling him he's forgiven for everything he did and didn't do.
Arthur tenses und her hand and drops his head to his chest on a heavy exhalation.
Eames' support is wordless. He moves to crouch next to Arthur so his hip rests against the futon, then he sets the palm of his right hand against Arthur's nape.
Ariadne catches Eames' gaze - open, unguarded for once - and can't read what she finds there at all. Both men crouch before her; Eames' hand is heavy on Arthur's neck, his thumb smoothes along taut muscles. Arthur's breathing is uneven.
Out of instinct, Ariadne sets her hand on Arthur's bowed head, cards her fingers through dark hair that's warm near the scalp and silky cool near the tips. It's no longer perfectly slicked back. She scrapes her fingernails lightly over his scalp; he gives a choked gasp and sways, his hands shoot forward to support his weight, they come to rest to the left and right of her thighs.
She sees Eames press blunt fingernails into the side of Arthur's neck, sees a shiver run through Arthur. He moves a fraction, rests his forehead on her knees, an acute bloom of warmth against her bare skin. His breath skitters down her shins. She closes her eyes at the feeling of claustrophobia that's welling up inside of her, just keeps threading her hand through Arthur's hair, slow and reassuring.
Ariadne stops when she meets Eames' hand, a warm obstacle. Feels her own hand rise and fall with Arthur's breathing. Eames moves his fingertips. Just the tips. Rests them on her nails. His hand looks huge next to hers. She's trapped yet safe, pulls her fingers up to press against his.
She looks up then, meets his gaze even though she wonders why because she still can't read him and she wonders if she ever did. She watches his mouth tighten and tries to pulls away, because suddenly, this is too intimate and too close. Arthur's warm breath on her bare shins makes her hyper-aware of every physical sensation, of the goosebumps skittering up and down her arms despite the warmth, of the warmth of Eames' hand against hers, and the way the adrenaline still coursing through her system has her contemplating options which suddenly seem to be blatantly present.
It's just the adrenaline, though, so she tries to move - and realises, slowed by the alcohol, that she can't. Eames moves quickly, traps her wrist. He holds her gaze for a few more seconds, with a gaze that makes her uncomfortable because he seems to look right into her, past walls and locks and safety measures.
He bends forward - she notices, absurdly, that his hair has curled where it's soaked in sweat - and presses his lips against her knuckles. It's dry, warm pressure, light and undemanding. It's soft warmth against her skin and it's not enough. She wonders if it'll ever be. Arthur's breath hitches, no doubt because he feels Eames closer than before. Ariadne digs her nails into Arthur's scalp, shifts her knuckles against Eames' lips. He rests his lips there for a few long seconds, then withdraws and looks at her again.
Ariadne's mind races. She still cannot tell what Eames expects her to do, what he wants or needs, but she knows what she needs. The need for a more profound sense of connection, the need for closeness in any given way is overwhelming suddenly. Her skin prickles with it. Her breathing picks up. If either man makes a move now, she'll fuck him without thinking twice. The thought makes her wet and Arthur must be blind drunk if he doesn't smell it. She doesn't care if he does, but knows that they're all drunk and having sex now would be the worst idea since she accepted Arthur's job offer. It doesn't mean she's not thinking about it, though.
Arthur inhales deep, but doesn't shift his head, his hands move against her thighs, come to rest against the fabric of her skirt. He's noticed. She refuses to blush. She's not going to apologise.
She refuses to look at Eames, though, and instead bends forward and presses her lips against Arthur's nape. Her hair falls forward and screens her from Eames' reaction but leaves her open to Arthur, to the sharp, grounding bite of fingers into her thighs, to the movement of his forehead against her knees. To the deep inhalation and the moist warmth as he exhales unsteadily.
She waits a couple of seconds, feels the tension ramp up and waits for another reaction from him; she catalogues the slight tremble, the way his breathing changes, the way his hands stop hurting and start soothing. When nothing else happens, Ariadne moves her head, rests her cheek against his neck and wills the tension from her body.
Arthur moves and then they're cheek to cheek. The position leaves her neck in a crick and her back protesting. His day-old stubble burns and prickles, she smells the vodka on his breath, but despite the discomfort, she smiles.
Eames uncovers this smile when he pushes her hair behind her ear. She's once again surprised by how gentle his fingers can be. He runs his fingertips over her temple, down her cheek to her jaw. She reaches for his hand, pulls it close and shuts her eyes before pressing her lips to his knuckles in a perfect copy of his earlier gesture.
The next thing she knows, he's pulling his hand away and she feels the altogether different warmth of his lips on hers in a gentle touch. Ariadne's surprised by how not surprised she is by his move. Eames is not a patient man. The need to deepen the kiss is difficult to ignore but she fights it down.
She opens her eyes again and finds his open as well. He has withdrawn a little, runs his fingertip over her bottom lip.
His gaze drops to Arthur. "We should move," he murmurs.
Arthur's lashes brush her cheek when he opens his eyes. He tenses underneath her, moves away, jerky, fast. Their heads collide with a painful thump. She twitches away, the room around her tilts, and she hates the effect of the alcohol she's had. She's always been a lightweight drinker and should have known better.
Eames moves before she can, clamps his hand around Arthur's upper arm. "Stay." It's not a suggestion.
Ariadne straightens her back and tries to clear her head. Arthur looks hunted, his crouched look that of a cat ready to bolt, all tense muscles and looking for escape routes. She thinks that if it weren't for Eames' hand holding him, he'd be out of the garage already. It's weird, Eames isn't even holding on all that tight, but that small touch seems to stop Arthur.
It sends the cogs in her brain turning, she all but feels them speeding up. She raises her hand, lets it hover between them, then sets it on Arthur's cheek. His skin is hot against her palm and he tilts his head against it for the fraction of a second before realising what he's doing and moving away. It gives her the answer she's been looking for, though.
Her heart races when she looks at Eames, tries to communicate without words. She's not sure he fully understands her intent, but she has no time to explain, doesn't think she could without it turning awkward and clumsy. She puts her hand back on Arthur cheek, then glides it lower, to his neck and his jacket, insinuates her fingers underneath the collar and pushes. Eames thankfully takes the clue and helps her pull the jacket off Arthur's shoulders. She still expects Arthur to pull away, but, surprisingly enough, he stays still.
Once the jacket is off, Ariadne closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, then starts unbuttoning her blouse under what she knows are the watchful eyes of both men. She shrugs out of it and reveals the tank top underneath. Weirdly, she feels more naked this way than she would fully unclothed. It doesn't matter, though. She opens her eyes again, searches Eames' face, then nods and extends her hand.
Eames gets up, pulls her up and away from Arthur by the hand she's stretching out and flush against his chest. His eyes search hers, she sees his pupils wide with alcohol and his lips moist from where he's just licked them. Where he's biting them. She reaches up to touch her index finger to his bottom lip. She's not steady stable, sways on the spot. His hand presses tighter against her back.
Then Eames is kissing her, hot and urgent and messy with no pretence and very little gentleness and she swims in the rush of his smell, their smell, of vodka-induced vertigo and mingled need. It's not where she intended this to go, but she can't and doesn't want to fight it, not when Eames groans under his breath and licks into her mouth with a single-minded precision that makes her toes curl and that she'd have expected from Arthur, not him. Arthur, who is right next to them. Arthur, who must be watching them.
Arthur, who suddenly moves at a speed too high for her to follow in her drunken state and is behind her, then, who sets his lips, his teeth, to the side of her neck and fucking bites down, a sharp ring of acute pain.
She doesn't recognise the sound she's making, didn't know she was capable of anything like it. She struggles free of Eames on a gasp and reaches for Arthur, sees his pupils blown wide and his mouth open on a pant, pulls him into a bruising kiss and somehow they all tumble on the bed, touching and kissing as though their lives depend on it. Arthur's shirt disappears along with her skirt. Eames' pants are smooth against her bare legs and she feels his erection against her hip.
Somewhere in her mind Ariadne comes back to the thought that she's too drunk for this. The alcohol-induced vertigo pulls at her mind and makes her nauseous and the longer she kisses either of them, the more she dislikes the vodka she tastes on them. She's about to sleep with two men and she really doesn't want it to happen when they're all drunk and out of their minds and might regret it in the morning.
She also really, really hates the taste of the vodka by now. Another tangent twists her train of thought aside, they couldn't have had chocolate before they started this, bittersweet chocolate maybe, with a bit of chili... she can't keep her thoughts straight anymore. She pulls back a little, away from Eames' lips on hers - god, those lips, she has plans for them later, for them and his clever, clever tongue - and Arthur's mouth on her collarbone - she has plans for that mouth, too, but not now, not now. Her head swims, their combined heat makes the vertigo worse, and she's beginning to fray around the edges at the need washing over her and through her. She wants to fuck them. More than that, though, she wants the room to stop spinning.
Arthur moves his hand to cup her breast and Eames rocks against her hip to get even closer to her than before, reaching over her to stroke Arthur's flank. Arthur responds with a guttural groan that shoots straight to her clit and has her inner muscles clenching, but vertigo pulls at her. Her stomach does a slow-motion roll and Ariadne sits bolt upright, flailing.
"I'm getting sick," she declares.
Arthur's hand on her upper thigh freezes. Eames is completely still next to her, she can't even hear him breathe.
Her stomach lurches and she stumbles toward the bathroom, her feet bare against the cold and dirty floor of the garage. She forgets about her ankle, puts her weight on it and staggers, pain shooting through her. She hears Eames behind her, trying to get up to help but raises a wobbly hand in his direction to stop him. She limps to the bathroom as quickly as she can and turns on the faucet to splash cold water in her face. Salty saliva pools under her tongue and drips from her bottom lip as she hangs over the sink to fight the inevitable and thinks that, yeah, just perfect. Picture-perfect ending for an attempt at sleeping with two men.
Ariadne rinses her mouth of the salt and vodka taste, spits, and then drinks big mouthfuls of painfully cold water. With some difficulty, she sticks her head under the faucet as much as possible and lets the frigid water cool her forehead.
She can't say how long she stays like that, only that eventually, somebody turns off the faucet, pulls her wet hair back from her face and dabs her face dry with a towel. She doesn't need to open her eyes, she can tell it's Eames by his smell and the familiar feel of his hands.
With some of the haze lifted, Ariadne wonders when his hands became familiar and why the thought doesn't scare the living daylights out of her.
She keeps her eyes closed and he lifts her off her feet, carries her back to what she supposes is the bed. He sets her down and she does open her eyes when she doesn't feel the bed next to her dip.
"What are you doing?" she says, lifting herself up on her elbows. The room still rocks up and down like a float. He should be next to her, it doesn't make sense for him to be standing there, watching her.
"Social experiment," Eames answers with an odd smile tinged with sadness. "The effects of Finnish vodka on skinny people."
Next to her, Arthur gives a loud snore and Ariadne flops back with a laugh. Great. Just great. She's wet as the fucking rainforest and in no state to put it to good use. Arthur has passed out. It's not going to be an exclusive thing, though. Both or none. She's never been one to settle for less. "Can I get a rain check?" she asks and extends her hand in Eames' direction again.
"Are you s - "
"Don't even think of finishing that sentence," she warns and means it. "Get back here." When he doesn't move immediately, she squints at him and says, "Now."
"Bossy," Eames mumbles with a smile but he lies down next to her again, spoons around her, his arm around her midsection, his hand resting against her belly. She feels his erection push against her, all but hears his heart beat against her back. Fast. It surprises her how easy it is to suppress the sexual tension still threading them together despite the fact that they're only separated by thin layers of clothing. She begins to wonder if this quiet moment isn't better than any rushed sex would have been.
Next to them, Arthur moves, rolls closer to her and pushes up against her. His head comes to rest just under her breast, feverish warm. She threads her hand through his hair again, stretches her legs against his body, feels his erection against her thigh. No, Eames isn't alone. But he is the only one conscious.
"Sorry 'bout the blue balls," Ariadne whispers.
She feels the puff of breath against her shoulder when Eames chuckles. "I take your rain check."
They end up touching languidly, hands stroking over skin that is unfamiliar yet familiar. Ariadne tangles her hand with Eames' to stroke over Arthur's naked back. It's the last thing she remembers before she falls asleep - Arthur's hand coming to snake around her waist, his hair tickling her cleavage, Eames' chest warm and broad against her back, his arm alongside hers, his hand resting on hers, her palm against Arthur's back.
She knows, realistically, that she should be freaking out. But here, right now, she can't bring herself to care.
Eames kisses the outside of her ear and she smiles, hooks her foot over his calf, and keeps him close. She has Eames' heartbeat at her back and Arthur's at her front.
Despite everything that has happened to bring them here, Ariadne has never felt more content.
***
Part 13: Troika
Arthur doesn't let go of her arm until they're all in the warehouse. His hand bites into her skin, her muscles. She tries to ignore it, is too high on adrenaline, on the rush of success and danger and relief.
She lets out a whoop when the door falls shut behind them but it dies on her lips when Arthur whirls her around so she's nose to nose with him.
"What the hell, Ariadne?"
A fine sheen on sweat glistens on his upper lip. His jaw is tense and, absurdly, she is reminded of the nutcrackers her mother always brings out for Christmas. She can't help the grin spreading over her face or the giggle that escapes her.
They made it and he looks like one of her mother's nutcrackers and, hell, maybe she is hysterical but she can't stop it.
She ignores the flash of warning in his eyes and only realises that she's gone too far when he grabs her chin, forceful, tight.
"This is funny to you?" he hisses and grips her chin tighter, fingers pressing against bone, sharp blossoms of pain. "Funny?" he repeats.
Her heart slams against her ribcage, she tastes the beats on her tongue. Arthur's eyes are dark. She knows her own must be wide, she feels like the proverbial deer in headlights and hates the onrush of weakness when she was still so strong just seconds ago, hates the shock.
It's Eames who breaks the tension. "Easy there," he says amicably, placing a hand on Arthur's shoulder.
Ariadne feels the tension in Arthur accelerate, sees the flash of rage cross his face. She doesn't have time to warn Eames, can only watch as Arthur whips around, fist shooting forward and connecting with Eames' face with a sickening noise.
Eames gives a surprised grunt of pain and stumbles backward on the bed, carried by the punch's momentum. Arthur follows, tense as a bowstring, hands raised, ready to throw another punch, but just as his knees hit the bed next to Eames, Eames catches Arthur's fist, twists it behind his back hard enough he's about to dislocate Arthur's shoulder and slings him down on the bed too. He uses his greater weight and strength and Arthur's exhaustion to hold him there until Arthur goes still under him.
"I suggest you take a deep breath," Eames says in a tone Ariadne has never heard from him before, "and reassess your strategy."
Arthur's shoulderblades move under the leather of his jacket. He forcibly relaxes his posture, unclenches his fists slowly.
Ariadne dares to take the first breath she has in what feels like minutes. The tension in the air sears her lungs and she can't help but notice that Eames has his full body pressed against Arthur. She shuts down her inappropriate thoughts.
Arthur murmurs something into the mattress, and Eames lets go of him. "Much better," he murmurs and rolls to the side.
Arthur moves so fast it's a blur, but the fight, the punch she expects doesn't come. Instead, Arthur rises from his crouch and walks toward the bathroom so fast it looks as though he's running. Ariadne sees his pupils are dilated - his eyes look black. He leaves the door open; she hears water running into the sink, then splashing, and a subdued, "Fuck."
Arthur stays in the bathroom. A lot of water goes down the drain.
Ariadne reaches a shaky hand to pull a chair closer, then remembers Eames and the punch Arthur landed. She lets go of the chair and walks to the bed instead.
The gun peaking from Eames' waistband glistens dull in the odd light of the Finnish night.
Eames hasn't moved since Arthur rose. His eyes are closed, his chest rises and falls fast. The pulse on his neck jumps. A trickle of blood is drying in his stubble.
"Sit down, love," he says suddenly, startling her. He pats his hand against the mattress.
She sits without thinking just as the water in the bathroom is shut off.
Eames' leg is a strip of warmth against her leg.
She's quiet for a minute before it bursts out of her, "What the hell just happened?"
Eames doesn't have time to answer because Arthur reappears in the workshop and walks stiffly to the chair Ariadne moved earlier.
He sits, bends forward, elbows on his thighs, hands clasped and dangling just under his knees. His breathing is slow, measured, controlled. Drops of water cling to his face, some collect on his eyelashes and glisten in the light that still hasn't faded despite the late hour. He looks out the window but Ariadne wonders if he sees anything.
Again it's Eames who makes the first move. The creaking of the bed hangs loud in the room and her hand shoots out to clench around his wrist. "Don't." She's not going to admit it out loud, but Arthur's unexpected display of violence has shaken her to the core.
Eames twitches a smile, peels her fingers from his wrist and curls his own around her hand, engulfs it in heat. He squeezes, once, but doesn't say anything.
She nods, closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. The next thing she hears is the quiet snap of the factory's gate closing.
When she opens her eyes again, Arthur still hasn't moved. She itches to ask what the fuck is wrong with him, wants to punch him for scaring her, for snapping her damn neck in the dream, and at the same time wants to rest a hand on his shoulder to offer sympathy. She doesn't get up, however. Just watches, barely daring to breathe as a drop of water slips from his eyelashes and falls to the concrete floor.
He looks up then, catches her gaze and this time, she does stop breathing. What she sees…
The door swings open and the moment is lost. Arthur lowers his head again.
Eames walks in, swift and sure as though he owns the large factory workshop. A bottle dangles from his fingertips. He unscrews it with an audible break, then holds it out to her.
"Eames," she starts, but he shushes her.
"We all need it."
She takes the bottle. To her surprise, the alcohol doesn't burn its way down her throat as she takes a deep swig.
Vodka. A good, smooth Finnish one, but not cold enough. She wrinkles her nose in disgust but lets the warmth spread through her chest, takes another swig, then hands the bottle back to Eames.
He quirks his lips, doesn't wipe the bottle's mouth, and takes a swig of his own. With the alcohol warming her cheeks as well, she watches his throat work as he swallows.
Out of the corner of her eye she sees Arthur move, something she would have missed had she only gone by sound. Arthur is quiet as a cat.
He stands next to Eames, his hand extended toward the bottle.
Eames watches him over the tipped-up bottle's neck before he lets the bottle sink and holds it out toward Arthur.
It's between them for long seconds. Their gazes meet and once again the tension in the garage is thick enough to be cut with a knife.
Arthur takes the bottle eventually, closes his eyes and puts it to his lips. He tips his head back and drinks as one would drink water, one deep gulp after another.
Ariadne's eyes go wide as she watches the content of the bottle rapidly dwindle away.
Eames steps forward, intent on stopping Arthur, but Arthur retreats, keeps drinking.
Eames moves fast, then, grabs the bottle. "That's quite enough, pet," he says and pries the bottle from Arthur's death-grip on it.
Arthur doesn't let go, so the vodka sloshes over his chin and shirt when Eames finally manages to pull the bottle away.
Ariadne crosses her arms over her chest. "Explain," she demands. "Somebody explain what the hell is going on here."
Arthur slumps on the bed, head in his hands. She doesn't wait for an answer from him.
"Eames." Her tone is cutting, the alcohol helps. "What are you not telling me?"
"Ignorance is - "
She takes a threatening step forward, closes her hand around the bottleneck. "If you finish that sentence, I swear I'll smash the bottle in your face."
" - is a dangerous thing," Eames finishes, unperturbed by her outbreak. He slides her fingers off the bottle and sets it down on the dirty floor. "You deserve to know."
So he tells her.
From the corner of her eyes, Ariadne sees Arthur retrieving the bottle and sipping from it while Eames fills her in. One gulp, two, three; his throat is working, the movement of his adam's apple mesmerizing her.
Eames tells her what she hopes is everything. About the strange clients and how they turned out to be intelligence. At that part of Eames' tale, Arthur twitches momentarily and looks up, but then only nods, tired. He runs his left hand through his hair and Ariadne sees blood on it, blood from dozens of small cuts. Ariadne frowns. Must be from the glass that rained down on him in the café. She looks toward Eames, but he must have seen it, too, because he stops his tale momentarily and slips into the bathroom only to return seconds later with a bottle of iodine and some toilet paper. He sets it on the ground next to the bed and continues talking.
Eames tells her more. About Saarela and his program and the interest the intelligence agencies have in it. About a woman named Katya and the underworld bounty she told Eames was on Ariadne's head. About the way the program file and decryption key they have on the flashdrive is the only copy in existence.
"And the upload failed?"
Arthur nods again. He doesn't look up.
Ariadne takes a deep breath and rests the back of her hand against her forehead. "So that means we're on international wanted lists of at least three intelligence agencies now." She lifts her other hand and counts her fingers. "Also, there's a bounty on my head and the only thing that might save us is this flashdrive. If we manage to get out of the country to upload it somewhere and make it go live." Her head swims as the enormity of that sinks in. She breathes out, slow. "Tell me you have more vodka."
Eames slants a look at Arthur, then produces another, smaller bottle from the fridge, more of a hipflask-sample size and hands it to her. She up-ends it, knowing it'll knock her off her feet and not caring. If there ever has been a moment that warranted being absolutely stupidly drunk, this is it.
"I'm surprised you're not freaking out more," Eames admits, pulling the empty bottle from her hand.
"You just see the exterior," she answers, her voice smooth and clear despite the alcohol still burning her throat. "Give me a day to digest and come up with ways to kick both your asses to the moon and back."
Eames tenses at this and she can see that he already opens his mouth for a retort, but to Ariadne's surprise, Arthur looks up at Eames and shakes his head minutely. Eames closes his mouth again, but his jaw works.
She wants to. God, does she want to. She also knows it won't do her any good, because these two men are all she has right now, her only chance to get out of this alive. They essentially took away her life as she knows it. But if she's honest with herself, she doesn't know if she can hate them for it. She hasn't felt the same in Paris since the Fischer job. She jumped at Arthur's offer.
"I don't get it, either," Arthur says, his voice made unsteady by the alcohol but his gaze on her is hard. "You almost died. We almost died. I fucking almost got all of us killed."
"We're here," Eames says, gentle as though calming a spooked animal. "We made it out, alive and successful." He dabs an iodine swab on a glass cut on Arthur's hand. Arthur flinches.
"How can you take all of this in stride?" Arthur turns from Ariadne to Eames. She can see that the look is meant to be stern but falls short somewhere around confused. Or maybe worried. But worried about what?
"What makes you think we are?" Eames asks, his voice dark and raw as he finishes cleaning the cuts on Arthur's arm. Ariadne sees that Eames' fingertips linger just a little longer than strictly necessary. There's a tension in Eames that matches her own. The adrenaline from the fight and the narrow escape is still coursing through their systems. Unlike Arthur, neither of them have vented the overload. It crawls underneath her skin, skitters up and down, trying to break free.
"I told you not to dabble in this," Eames says, sounding sad, and Ariadne knows suddenly that she's missing most of the background of the story Eames has just told her. Too much to be informed about now when they're all teetering on the edge, so she fights the urge to inquire.
To do something, she reaches out a hand to take the bloodied swabs from Eames but shifts her weight wrong, puts too much of it on her left foot and hisses through her teeth. Pain shoots through her, sharp and hot.
Both Eames' and Arthur's gazes snap up to her.
"What's wrong?"
"Ankle," she says, clenching her teeth against the pain. The alcohol subdued the pain until now, but her weight aggravates it all over again.
"Sit," Eames says.
She complies without protest. He pulls off her shoe, then her socks, then Eames' warm, careful hands are on her heel and calf, fingers testing heat and swelling. It hurts, but at the same time, she's electrically aware of his touch as well, and slightly distracted. Her thoughts are still racing with left over adrenaline.
"Feels worse than it is," Eames says when he lets go of her ankle. "Probably sprained."
Ariadne bites the inside of her cheek. It's one thing to be injured in a dream when you can just wake up and be fine, but this? This is reality, and reality hurts like a bitch.
"An icepack would be ideal, but I'm afraid you'll have to go without."
Of course. She's seen their fridge, it doesn't have an icebox compartment. She closes her eyes and groans. "Then give me the bottle." She all but snaps her fingers in Eames' direction.
He huffs a laugh. "Won't do you much good anymore."
Oh, right. Arthur. And herself. She flops back on the mattress, her calves hanging over the edge of the bed. "Just great. No ice, no booze, and not even someone to kiss it better."
Distant thunder rumbles outside and she drifts, lulled by the sound of rain on the garage's tin roof and by the alcohol swirling in her system.
She blames the latter for not noticing the touch on her foot for what it is earlier.
"I'm sorry," she hears and the sound of Arthur's voice is so raw that she can't help but open her eyes and lift her head to look at him.
"I'm sorry about this," he murmurs again - and presses his lips to her instep.
She sits up abruptly and Arthur's fingers slide from her ankle. Quick, sharp pain has her clenching her teeth on a hiss. What the hell is he apologising for? For hurting her? For getting her involved in all this? She knows he wouldn't, hell, he shouldn't apologise for that, because after all, getting involved was her choice.
Arthur reaches up to where he grabbed her chin earlier, his hand twitching forward but stopping in mid-movement. "I'm - "
"Stop." Ariadne stops his words with her index, ring and middle finger over his lips. "Just stop." His lips are warm under her fingertips. "You can't control everything."
She presses her fingertips tighter against his mouth when she feels him trying to respond. She can handle him snapping, and she can handle him going through the aftermath of it, but she cannot... she cannot handle him apologising, because if he's human, if he's weak now, what the hell does that make her?
"I'm just glad you told me everything now," she tells him, and it's the closest she can get to telling him he's forgiven for everything he did and didn't do.
Arthur tenses und her hand and drops his head to his chest on a heavy exhalation.
Eames' support is wordless. He moves to crouch next to Arthur so his hip rests against the futon, then he sets the palm of his right hand against Arthur's nape.
Ariadne catches Eames' gaze - open, unguarded for once - and can't read what she finds there at all. Both men crouch before her; Eames' hand is heavy on Arthur's neck, his thumb smoothes along taut muscles. Arthur's breathing is uneven.
Out of instinct, Ariadne sets her hand on Arthur's bowed head, cards her fingers through dark hair that's warm near the scalp and silky cool near the tips. It's no longer perfectly slicked back. She scrapes her fingernails lightly over his scalp; he gives a choked gasp and sways, his hands shoot forward to support his weight, they come to rest to the left and right of her thighs.
She sees Eames press blunt fingernails into the side of Arthur's neck, sees a shiver run through Arthur. He moves a fraction, rests his forehead on her knees, an acute bloom of warmth against her bare skin. His breath skitters down her shins. She closes her eyes at the feeling of claustrophobia that's welling up inside of her, just keeps threading her hand through Arthur's hair, slow and reassuring.
Ariadne stops when she meets Eames' hand, a warm obstacle. Feels her own hand rise and fall with Arthur's breathing. Eames moves his fingertips. Just the tips. Rests them on her nails. His hand looks huge next to hers. She's trapped yet safe, pulls her fingers up to press against his.
She looks up then, meets his gaze even though she wonders why because she still can't read him and she wonders if she ever did. She watches his mouth tighten and tries to pulls away, because suddenly, this is too intimate and too close. Arthur's warm breath on her bare shins makes her hyper-aware of every physical sensation, of the goosebumps skittering up and down her arms despite the warmth, of the warmth of Eames' hand against hers, and the way the adrenaline still coursing through her system has her contemplating options which suddenly seem to be blatantly present.
It's just the adrenaline, though, so she tries to move - and realises, slowed by the alcohol, that she can't. Eames moves quickly, traps her wrist. He holds her gaze for a few more seconds, with a gaze that makes her uncomfortable because he seems to look right into her, past walls and locks and safety measures.
He bends forward - she notices, absurdly, that his hair has curled where it's soaked in sweat - and presses his lips against her knuckles. It's dry, warm pressure, light and undemanding. It's soft warmth against her skin and it's not enough. She wonders if it'll ever be. Arthur's breath hitches, no doubt because he feels Eames closer than before. Ariadne digs her nails into Arthur's scalp, shifts her knuckles against Eames' lips. He rests his lips there for a few long seconds, then withdraws and looks at her again.
Ariadne's mind races. She still cannot tell what Eames expects her to do, what he wants or needs, but she knows what she needs. The need for a more profound sense of connection, the need for closeness in any given way is overwhelming suddenly. Her skin prickles with it. Her breathing picks up. If either man makes a move now, she'll fuck him without thinking twice. The thought makes her wet and Arthur must be blind drunk if he doesn't smell it. She doesn't care if he does, but knows that they're all drunk and having sex now would be the worst idea since she accepted Arthur's job offer. It doesn't mean she's not thinking about it, though.
Arthur inhales deep, but doesn't shift his head, his hands move against her thighs, come to rest against the fabric of her skirt. He's noticed. She refuses to blush. She's not going to apologise.
She refuses to look at Eames, though, and instead bends forward and presses her lips against Arthur's nape. Her hair falls forward and screens her from Eames' reaction but leaves her open to Arthur, to the sharp, grounding bite of fingers into her thighs, to the movement of his forehead against her knees. To the deep inhalation and the moist warmth as he exhales unsteadily.
She waits a couple of seconds, feels the tension ramp up and waits for another reaction from him; she catalogues the slight tremble, the way his breathing changes, the way his hands stop hurting and start soothing. When nothing else happens, Ariadne moves her head, rests her cheek against his neck and wills the tension from her body.
Arthur moves and then they're cheek to cheek. The position leaves her neck in a crick and her back protesting. His day-old stubble burns and prickles, she smells the vodka on his breath, but despite the discomfort, she smiles.
Eames uncovers this smile when he pushes her hair behind her ear. She's once again surprised by how gentle his fingers can be. He runs his fingertips over her temple, down her cheek to her jaw. She reaches for his hand, pulls it close and shuts her eyes before pressing her lips to his knuckles in a perfect copy of his earlier gesture.
The next thing she knows, he's pulling his hand away and she feels the altogether different warmth of his lips on hers in a gentle touch. Ariadne's surprised by how not surprised she is by his move. Eames is not a patient man. The need to deepen the kiss is difficult to ignore but she fights it down.
She opens her eyes again and finds his open as well. He has withdrawn a little, runs his fingertip over her bottom lip.
His gaze drops to Arthur. "We should move," he murmurs.
Arthur's lashes brush her cheek when he opens his eyes. He tenses underneath her, moves away, jerky, fast. Their heads collide with a painful thump. She twitches away, the room around her tilts, and she hates the effect of the alcohol she's had. She's always been a lightweight drinker and should have known better.
Eames moves before she can, clamps his hand around Arthur's upper arm. "Stay." It's not a suggestion.
Ariadne straightens her back and tries to clear her head. Arthur looks hunted, his crouched look that of a cat ready to bolt, all tense muscles and looking for escape routes. She thinks that if it weren't for Eames' hand holding him, he'd be out of the garage already. It's weird, Eames isn't even holding on all that tight, but that small touch seems to stop Arthur.
It sends the cogs in her brain turning, she all but feels them speeding up. She raises her hand, lets it hover between them, then sets it on Arthur's cheek. His skin is hot against her palm and he tilts his head against it for the fraction of a second before realising what he's doing and moving away. It gives her the answer she's been looking for, though.
Her heart races when she looks at Eames, tries to communicate without words. She's not sure he fully understands her intent, but she has no time to explain, doesn't think she could without it turning awkward and clumsy. She puts her hand back on Arthur cheek, then glides it lower, to his neck and his jacket, insinuates her fingers underneath the collar and pushes. Eames thankfully takes the clue and helps her pull the jacket off Arthur's shoulders. She still expects Arthur to pull away, but, surprisingly enough, he stays still.
Once the jacket is off, Ariadne closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, then starts unbuttoning her blouse under what she knows are the watchful eyes of both men. She shrugs out of it and reveals the tank top underneath. Weirdly, she feels more naked this way than she would fully unclothed. It doesn't matter, though. She opens her eyes again, searches Eames' face, then nods and extends her hand.
Eames gets up, pulls her up and away from Arthur by the hand she's stretching out and flush against his chest. His eyes search hers, she sees his pupils wide with alcohol and his lips moist from where he's just licked them. Where he's biting them. She reaches up to touch her index finger to his bottom lip. She's not steady stable, sways on the spot. His hand presses tighter against her back.
Then Eames is kissing her, hot and urgent and messy with no pretence and very little gentleness and she swims in the rush of his smell, their smell, of vodka-induced vertigo and mingled need. It's not where she intended this to go, but she can't and doesn't want to fight it, not when Eames groans under his breath and licks into her mouth with a single-minded precision that makes her toes curl and that she'd have expected from Arthur, not him. Arthur, who is right next to them. Arthur, who must be watching them.
Arthur, who suddenly moves at a speed too high for her to follow in her drunken state and is behind her, then, who sets his lips, his teeth, to the side of her neck and fucking bites down, a sharp ring of acute pain.
She doesn't recognise the sound she's making, didn't know she was capable of anything like it. She struggles free of Eames on a gasp and reaches for Arthur, sees his pupils blown wide and his mouth open on a pant, pulls him into a bruising kiss and somehow they all tumble on the bed, touching and kissing as though their lives depend on it. Arthur's shirt disappears along with her skirt. Eames' pants are smooth against her bare legs and she feels his erection against her hip.
Somewhere in her mind Ariadne comes back to the thought that she's too drunk for this. The alcohol-induced vertigo pulls at her mind and makes her nauseous and the longer she kisses either of them, the more she dislikes the vodka she tastes on them. She's about to sleep with two men and she really doesn't want it to happen when they're all drunk and out of their minds and might regret it in the morning.
She also really, really hates the taste of the vodka by now. Another tangent twists her train of thought aside, they couldn't have had chocolate before they started this, bittersweet chocolate maybe, with a bit of chili... she can't keep her thoughts straight anymore. She pulls back a little, away from Eames' lips on hers - god, those lips, she has plans for them later, for them and his clever, clever tongue - and Arthur's mouth on her collarbone - she has plans for that mouth, too, but not now, not now. Her head swims, their combined heat makes the vertigo worse, and she's beginning to fray around the edges at the need washing over her and through her. She wants to fuck them. More than that, though, she wants the room to stop spinning.
Arthur moves his hand to cup her breast and Eames rocks against her hip to get even closer to her than before, reaching over her to stroke Arthur's flank. Arthur responds with a guttural groan that shoots straight to her clit and has her inner muscles clenching, but vertigo pulls at her. Her stomach does a slow-motion roll and Ariadne sits bolt upright, flailing.
"I'm getting sick," she declares.
Arthur's hand on her upper thigh freezes. Eames is completely still next to her, she can't even hear him breathe.
Her stomach lurches and she stumbles toward the bathroom, her feet bare against the cold and dirty floor of the garage. She forgets about her ankle, puts her weight on it and staggers, pain shooting through her. She hears Eames behind her, trying to get up to help but raises a wobbly hand in his direction to stop him. She limps to the bathroom as quickly as she can and turns on the faucet to splash cold water in her face. Salty saliva pools under her tongue and drips from her bottom lip as she hangs over the sink to fight the inevitable and thinks that, yeah, just perfect. Picture-perfect ending for an attempt at sleeping with two men.
Ariadne rinses her mouth of the salt and vodka taste, spits, and then drinks big mouthfuls of painfully cold water. With some difficulty, she sticks her head under the faucet as much as possible and lets the frigid water cool her forehead.
She can't say how long she stays like that, only that eventually, somebody turns off the faucet, pulls her wet hair back from her face and dabs her face dry with a towel. She doesn't need to open her eyes, she can tell it's Eames by his smell and the familiar feel of his hands.
With some of the haze lifted, Ariadne wonders when his hands became familiar and why the thought doesn't scare the living daylights out of her.
She keeps her eyes closed and he lifts her off her feet, carries her back to what she supposes is the bed. He sets her down and she does open her eyes when she doesn't feel the bed next to her dip.
"What are you doing?" she says, lifting herself up on her elbows. The room still rocks up and down like a float. He should be next to her, it doesn't make sense for him to be standing there, watching her.
"Social experiment," Eames answers with an odd smile tinged with sadness. "The effects of Finnish vodka on skinny people."
Next to her, Arthur gives a loud snore and Ariadne flops back with a laugh. Great. Just great. She's wet as the fucking rainforest and in no state to put it to good use. Arthur has passed out. It's not going to be an exclusive thing, though. Both or none. She's never been one to settle for less. "Can I get a rain check?" she asks and extends her hand in Eames' direction again.
"Are you s - "
"Don't even think of finishing that sentence," she warns and means it. "Get back here." When he doesn't move immediately, she squints at him and says, "Now."
"Bossy," Eames mumbles with a smile but he lies down next to her again, spoons around her, his arm around her midsection, his hand resting against her belly. She feels his erection push against her, all but hears his heart beat against her back. Fast. It surprises her how easy it is to suppress the sexual tension still threading them together despite the fact that they're only separated by thin layers of clothing. She begins to wonder if this quiet moment isn't better than any rushed sex would have been.
Next to them, Arthur moves, rolls closer to her and pushes up against her. His head comes to rest just under her breast, feverish warm. She threads her hand through his hair again, stretches her legs against his body, feels his erection against her thigh. No, Eames isn't alone. But he is the only one conscious.
"Sorry 'bout the blue balls," Ariadne whispers.
She feels the puff of breath against her shoulder when Eames chuckles. "I take your rain check."
They end up touching languidly, hands stroking over skin that is unfamiliar yet familiar. Ariadne tangles her hand with Eames' to stroke over Arthur's naked back. It's the last thing she remembers before she falls asleep - Arthur's hand coming to snake around her waist, his hair tickling her cleavage, Eames' chest warm and broad against her back, his arm alongside hers, his hand resting on hers, her palm against Arthur's back.
She knows, realistically, that she should be freaking out. But here, right now, she can't bring herself to care.
Eames kisses the outside of her ear and she smiles, hooks her foot over his calf, and keeps him close. She has Eames' heartbeat at her back and Arthur's at her front.
Despite everything that has happened to bring them here, Ariadne has never felt more content.
***
Part 13: Troika