The Trembling Of The Migratory Birds - Part 13: Troika
Troika
Troika
Ariadne wakes curled into Eames - definitely Eames - warmed from head to toe. His breathing is slow and even and she's surprised he's not snoring. What little there is of his chest hair tickles her nose, though, and she sneezes. Vaguely mortified, she pats at the now damp spot on his chest and tries to look up, a fierce blush warming her cheeks.
Arms squeeze around her and lips press against the top of her head. "Morning, Sneezy."
"Hi," she replies in a small voice. Her breath is reflected by his chest and oh, God, that's horrible. Ariadne clamps her hand over her mouth. If she thought about continuing what they started last night, she's definitely not doing it like this.
Eames hand glides over her back, he moves to nuzzle her neck and no, no, no. If her breath is bad, then so is his and she's not having this. She has some standards. She disentangles herself from him, sits up and pushes away his wandering hand. "No kissing before we all brush our teeth."
The we all and Eames' cracked open eyes squinting toward the other - empty - side of the bed make her realise that Arthur's not in bed with them any longer.
She frowns, searches the room and finds him sitting in a chair, appealingly shirtless, nursing a cup of what she supposes is coffee. Relieved that he hasn't left, as was her first concern, Ariadne quirks a smile at him before she gets up off the bed and dashes toward the bathroom.
She's just squeezing toothpaste onto the brush when she hears Eames' voice, pitched low and still rough from sleep. "You picked up some bad habits from Cobb."
Arthur doesn't reply or maybe she just doesn't hear it. She starts to brush her teeth vigorously, trying to get rid of every bit of leftover alcohol and bad taste. One of the washcloths next to the sink is damp, which means that Arthur must have been awake for a while and has already cleaned up. She's seen, or rather heard, Arthur's morning routine a couple of mornings now. One less man to worry about having morning breath, at least.
Ariadne washes quickly, less to be presentable and more just to clean off yesterday's sweat that's been itching on her skin. When she pulls off her tanktop, though, it smells of Eames. A tingle of anticipation runs through her, knowing where it's likely going to lead once she leaves the bathroom. All right, so maybe it would be a good idea to shave her legs and under her arms. She likes being complimented for soft skin.
When she emerges, she finds Eames sitting up, looking at Arthur. He rises when he sees Ariadne and she has the distinct feeling that there was a conversation going on she didn't hear. Eames gives her a fleeting smile as she pads closer barefoot and he brushes past her to the bathroom - but not before resting his hand on Arthur's naked, bony shoulder, though, and saying, "Don't be a fool, Arthur. You've never been before. Take what's being offered."
Oh. Ariadne stops halfway to the bed. Behind her, Eames closes the bathroom door. So this is what all that was about.
"You know you won't get any better than Eames and me," she comments lightly, deliberately humming the next sentence to a familiar tune, "Think of all the fun you'd miss."
He looks away unsmiling and she can see him begin to shut down, shutting her out, shutting them out, and hell no. She won't have this. They already went too far yesterday to stop now.
She doesn't know exactly what Arthur and Eames talked about, but Arthur looks open now, exposed and thin-skinned and it kills her, bit by little bit, so she lifts her hand, raises it to his face and trails her fingertips along his sharp, now stubbled jaw, his cheek, to just underneath his lips.
"Arthur, you stupid idiot," she says gently when he flinches.
His gaze snaps to her face, open but unsure, so damn unsure, and unlike the assertive, strong Arthur she knows that she just inches forward and rests her lips against his. His walls aren't back up yet and she doesn't want to be on their wrong side when they are restored. It's not a kiss, it's just skin on skin, lips against lips. She keeps stroking her hand along his cheek, traces his ear and they share several breaths through their half-open lips. Ariadne tilts his chin and captures his bottom lip between her lips, gentle pressure. He still doesn't react noticeably, still doesn't kiss back, but slowly, slowly, he gravitates toward her. She curls her hand around his ear, strokes the skin just underneath his earlobe with the backs of her fingernails and his breath hitches. His hair - free of gel and still slightly damp from washing it - is silky and cool and she wants to run her hand through it again and again.
Finally, finally, she gets a reaction and he moves his head, just a fraction, slides against her upper lip with the slightest hint of teeth. His hand glides from her shoulder to her neck, cups the back of her head and he breathes out just as he glides his lips over hers, captures her lower lip this time and touches it with a languorous, torturous hint of tongue.
A sound struggles free of Ariadne's throat. After last night, frantic and drunk, this is slow and intimate and conscious. They both know that they can't walk away from this anymore.
It spirals from there. As though he's waking up in increments, Arthur begins to move against her, deepens the kiss and licks into her mouth. He groans when their tongues meet, pulls her against him and this is when the switch is flipped, where his hands clench against her and his hips search for friction, where he sucks on her tongue until she can't breathe, stripping small moans from her, where they break apart and they gulp in air before their mouths meet again. Her world drowns in the pounding of her heart in her head, in the way he suddenly, without any pretence, pulls her into his lap and winds her legs around his hips and rocks up and, fuck, she attempts to break away from his mouth to breathe his name, but he doesn't let her, keeps going, keeps kissing her, grinds her against him so she feels his erection rub against her panties.
A shadow falls over them and this time, Arthur pulls away; she hears him give a strangled moan and opens her eyes to find Eames next to him. Eames bending down. Eames stopping for a few long seconds, right next to them, close enough Ariadne can smell him, a heady blend of warm skin and their shared soap. She realises he's giving Arthur an out - not her, just Arthur - and wants to smack him upside the head for his fucking sense of nobility. She clenches her hand on his bicep to convey this, but then Arthur moves, reaches for the back of Eames' head to pull him into an open-mouthed kiss with one hand and grinds her against his crotch with the other and all she can get past her vocal chords is a strangled, "Oh, God."
Eames' hand curls around her neck, his other glides into Arthur's hair, bunching and likely pulling at it. They both groan and the vibration seeps into her skin and sets it on fire. Ariadne reaches out to anchor herself, but realises soon enough that the chair Arthur's sitting on is the worst possible place to be doing this. There's nothing to grab on to and no way to move safely.
She disentangles herself from the hands roaming over her skin and gets up. Her legs are wobbly, her palms damp. For a while, she just looks at Arthur and Eames kissing, tries hard not to feel left out, and misses Arthur's warmth against her. Her fault for standing up and moving away, she knows, but not entirely. They look like they've found water after a severe draught; they don't so much kiss as they breathe each other in, as though they have waited for years to do this. Some distant part of her brain reminds her that that's very likely the truth. Despite the small twinge of disappointment she feels, it's incredibly hot.
Arthur's slim and wiry against Eames' bigger build; his long fingers span the dark tattoos on Eames' skin, gliding under the white wife-beater, flexing and unflexing, kneading. She sees Eames suck on Arthur's bottom lip, hears Arthur's muted groan, nearly feels the way he bucks up into Eames the way he bucked into her earlier. Her face flushes and she moves backwards until the backs of her knees hit the futon and she sits down heavily, not elegant in the least and not caring.
Their kisses are wet and open, she hears them and feels their ghosts on her own skin, tastes Arthur on her lips and in her mouth. Unthinking, she opens the zipper of the skirt she's stupidly still wearing since last night. The silky material glides against her legs and just adds to the sensation as she kicks it off. She's already impatient.
The chair groans under their weight when Eames sinks further into Arthur. They're gorgeous together, Arthur's skin pale against Eames' tan. Ariadne watches the long muscles and sinews in his arms tighten as he holds on to Eames. She's fascinated by the veins on his arm, the jut of his wrist, and catalogues his reactions to what Eames is doing.
Eames... She doesn't think she's ever seen him this way. She knows he's focused, but right now, it seems that the only thing in his world is Arthur, like Arthur's the morning star Eames navigates by, the only thing he needs. It makes her wonder who of them wanted this more. For the moment, she is content to watch something unfold in front of her eyes that should be private but is willingly shared. Eames' muscles ripple under his skin, making the tattoos appear to be alive, as though they oscillate under Arthur's hands. His back is free of ink, though, she notes as Arthur slides his hands underneath Eames' wife-beater and pushes it up. She wants to get up and touch both of them but stays rooted on the spot. Arthur presses his fingertips against Eames' spine and Eames surges forward, both hands grabbing fistfuls of Arthur's hair. The muscles in his ass flex. From where she's sitting, Ariadne can see the outline of his erection through his dark pants, remembers the feel of it pressed against her last night. He's not a small man, a fact that makes her imagination go into overdrive. Arthur's groan settles in her belly too, hot and heavy with promise, and she decides she's had enough. She slips her hand into her panties and imagines Arthur against her, Eames inside her. It's so easy. So damn easy.
She must have made a noise because Eames chooses that very moment to look up at her. His gaze goes to her hand and she thinks she can see his pupils dilate from the distance. He stops kissing Arthur, takes Arthur's chin and directs his gaze in her direction. Both men stare at her, openly, their eyes dark. Arthur looks dishevelled, his lips kiss-swollen and a delicious, dark red. His chest rises and falls, while his hand glides compulsively over Eames' arm; Ariadne swears she can hear the quiet susurrus of hair being disturbed. Arthur looks content - no, intent, she notices with a shudder that zings to her toes when she rubs her fingertip over her clit - to watch her, but Eames scrambles to his feet, then pulls Arthur up and with him to the bed.
"Not starting without us, are you?" he murmurs. He kneels in front of her to presses a kiss to her clavicle. Arthur slides behind her on the bed and Eames takes his hand, places it on her belly while he opens her knees and slides between her thighs, holding them open wide with his shoulders. She leans down to kiss him, loses herself in the skilful glide of his lips and tongue, and finds traces of Arthur in Eames' taste.
Arthur's hands flex against her belly, then begin to roam underneath the tank top. His thumbs brush the underside of her breasts and she stops kissing Eames and lets her head fall to Arthur's chest, a move he takes advantage of immediately to kiss and nip at her exposed neck. The sting of his teeth has her inner muscles clenching, her breath coming in short gasps, the feeling accentuated by how far her thighs are spread. At the same time, Eames strokes his fingers over her hand in her panties, pressing lightly before pulling her hand out and looking at her glistening fingers.
God, Ariadne wants to kiss him again. She wants his mouth on her clit, but Eames takes her hand and sucks each of her fingers, tasting her, laving his tongue around them and giving Arthur a wicked look over her shoulders. Everything inside her contracts at the silky-soft-warm wetness of his mouth. Arthur's breath stutters as he watches, skitters over Ariadne's neck. She pulls her hand away from Eames reluctantly, already imagining that deft tongue put to better use, and Eames gets to his feet.
"Stop," she says, her voice rough. "Take it off. I want to see you."
Eames grins and makes a show of slowly, slowly stripping out of the wifebeater. Arthur takes his cue and slides her tank top up and off her from behind as well. He works his way back and up the futon as Eames crawls in with them and, what, no, wait. Ariadne makes a noise of protest, she wants him back on his knees between her legs, she wants his mouth -
"I've no objection to going down on my knees, poppet," he tells her, his voice and expression full of laughter, "but this futon is just too low for it to work."
Arthur shifts her higher on the futon and is between the two of them, then, his hands back on Ariadne's bared breasts, his eyes dark with intent. He's just beginning to lean down when Eames murmurs, "Sauce for the gander, I think," and Arthur's mouth parts on a harsh breath as Eames finds his nipple. Eames' hair tickles her bare stomach and once again she's staring, at the way Eames' lips close so perfectly over Arthur's nipple, covering his areola, how Eames' cheeks hollow and Arthur arches into the sensation. His hand rests on her breast, forgotten except for the occasional twitch. Eames eyes are closed now, as he sucks and teases, focused on Arthur and his reactions all the way.
Ariadne leans over Eames and traces his shoulderblades with her fingertips, follows the long, corded muscles from his shoulders to the swell of his ass. And what a glorious one it is, she thinks with a grin and gives into the urge to pinch. Eames flinches, lifts his head from Arthur's chest and gives her a playful glare.
"Cheeky."
"I'd say," Ariadne replies and smoothes her hand over the fabric still covering his ass. She wants more than this, though.
Eames has rested his cheek on Arthur's chest and is looking at her with laughing eyes. Arthur's hands move over his arms and back but stop at Eames waistband. A frown plays over his face.
Ariadne can see Arthur thinking, some of the haze lifting and she knows she needs to move fast if she wants to keep him with them. "Strip him," she blurts out.
Arthur's gaze snaps to her.
"Do it. Strip him." She pushes at Eames so he comes to lie on his back - something he lets her do with a still amused face - then leans over to Arthur to give him a deep kiss and whispers against his lips, "Slowly."
Arthur's eyes darken. For a moment, he hesitates, then he moves, graceful as ever, glides his hands over Eames' arms and chest and belly. He leans forward to press his lips against Eames' bellybutton and Eames squirms, torn between laugher and arousal. Arthur glides his lips lower, along the line of Eames' waistband. Eames' hips move, his erection strains against the material of his pants and Ariadne can't help but run a fingernail over the outline of it.
Eames breathes a choked "Fuck", tries to reach down and pull Arthur up for a kiss, but Ariadne interrupts his hands, interlaces her fingers with his. The pressure of his fingertips almost breaks the small bones in her hands. She keeps him occupied until she hears the unmistakeable sound of a zipper being lowered and Eames' answering breath of relief. She lets go of him and moves behind Arthur who nudges Eames' ass off the bed so he can slide the pants down and off of him.
Ariadne strokes her hands over Arthur now, kisses his long, taut back before reaching around and fiddling with his button and zipper. When she pulls Arthur's pants down, she stops with an appreciative smirk. Arthur's boxers are a sinfully smooth blue silk. She presses a kiss to his ass through the fabric. When she finally has divested him of his pants, she sits back on her haunches.
"Kiss him," she instructs. "Keep your eyes open."
Arthur moves over Eames, his thighs coming to rest on either side of Eames', but he doesn't rest his weight on him. When he leans down, he stops a mere inch away from Eames' lips and just looks, keeping himself suspended just on his arms. They're close enough they're breathing the same breath. Arthur's hair slips free from behind his ear and obscures the view when he finally dips down and kisses Eames.
They stay that way for a while, just kissing, until Eames suddenly growls, shoves both hands into Arthur's hair and pulls him against him, the kiss more aggressive and much more needy than before. Arthur's arms give out and he collapses against Eames; Ariadne sees their erections slide together and for a long frozen moment, they lie perfectly still, panting, an erotic still life.
Ariadne just stares, unblinking, unable to give any more commands. This reality is so much hotter than what she could have imagined.
After a while, Eames rolls his hips up and Arthur shudders, pushes himself up on his arms and begins to grind against Eames in earnest.
She thinks about the consequences much too late, too busy being turned on by what she sees when she watches Arthur's moves get more frantic, his breath come faster and Eames answer in kind.
"Don't - " she begins when suddenly, Arthur throws his head back, his eyes open and all pupil, his mouth parted on a desperate gasp. Eames' hands clamp around Arthur's waist, dig into his hips, press him against Eames while Eames rolls his hips up and then he, too, groans low and hoarse and lets go.
Arthur goes boneless on top of Eames, breathing heavily, his head resting on Eames' shoulder and Ariadne fights a whine of frustration. She crosses her arms over her chest, kicks their entangled legs lightly. "Just for the record? I hate you both."
Eames cracks an eye open and manages to look sheepish even as he gentles his hands through Arthur's hair. "Oops."
Ariadne sinks back on the bed with a frustrated groan and stares at the dusty, shadowed ceiling. This is not how she had imagined this would go. She knows it takes work for her to reach an orgasm, and with both men already done and ready to pass out, she'll have the equivalent of blue balls until they've recovered. Not fair, her petulant side cries out. Not fucking fair. Sure, she could get herself off, and it wouldn't be hard with the exquisite images burnt into her retina, but that's not what she wants. She's tired of her own hands. She wants them, both of them, or at least someone who isn't her. She wants a touch she doesn't know is coming.
A chuckle disturbs her morose thoughts. "Oh ye of little faith." She frowns and turns to the side to see Eames shaking his head at her. "Did you think we'd forget about you?" He tugs on Arthur's hair and Arthur lifts his head from Eames' chest. He looks a little wide-eyed and impossibly relaxed, as though layers of armour have been chipped away to make way for the man underneath. He smiles at her then, lazy and slow and something in Ariadne tightens at that, at the sudden speculative glint in his tired eyes.
"A little help?" Eames asks and Arthur nods, sits up, wholly unconcerned about the mess on his and Eames' bellies, his cock soft. He slides behind Ariadne, pulls her up and into his lap in an awkward tangle of limbs so she ends up sitting with her back against his chest, her thighs open, her knees on either side of his. The hair on his thighs causes pleasant friction against her freshly shaved legs. She's spread open this way, air hits her clit and ramps up the tension even if, as per usual, she's still not wet enough. She wonders how the hell she'll bring up the subject of lube.
Arthur distracts her from her thoughts when he secures his one arm around her waist, long fingers stroking the point of her hip, her waist. The other hand goes to her breast, just cups it and weighs it in his palm. "So lovely," he murmurs against the side of her neck, kisses just under her ear. His voice is tired and low but still crawls under her skin, making her close her eyes. She can tell he's not up to doing much else, but this alone is enough already. She feels him breathing against the side of her neck, feels his heartbeat against her back.
The creaking of plastic, of a tube being opened makes her open her eyes again. She blinks several times at the image of Eames with her small bottle of lube, squeezing some on his fingers, rubbing it to warm it up.
"How - " she tries but her throat is too dry to let her form the rest of the sentence.
Eames smirks. "You weren't quite as subtle as you thought, pet, a few days back when you got yourself off here," he says, his voice like liquid velvet. "I found it shoved under the duvet after you fell asleep."
A fierce blush creeps up Ariadne's cheeks and spreads to her chest. She has the distinct urge to hide. "You knew?"
"Darling, the entire room smelled like sex."
"Oh, damn," she breathes, mortified, and closes her eyes to avoid looking at Eames. She squirms against Arthur's hold. "Sex?"
Arthur chuckles against her neck, locks his arm around her waist to stop her movements. "That's the plan, eventually."
Before she can reply, Eames' fingers touch her, spreading the body-warm lube over her clit, and, God, oh, God. If she was ever uncertain, she now knows that he's not too tired for this at all. Eames knows exactly what he's doing. His blunt fingers tease at her, circling and stroking, so expertly, so damn knowingly, and she wants to sob with happiness that she doesn't need to explain about the lube, he just knows, he just -
Her thoughts derail when he lowers his mouth to her breast and laves at her nipple just as he pushes a finger inside of her and adds pressure to her clit at the same time. She flails, claws her hands into Arthur's thighs and feels it build and build with each new stroke of Eames' tongue and each move of his finger inside of her, but it's only when Arthur mouths at her earlobe and adds a small, stinging bite that she falls over the edge on a gasp.
Eames lets go of her breast and kisses her through her orgasm until she can't breathe and the sensations are too much and she breaks away, breathing huge lungfuls of air. Eames slides his finger out of her, the sensation making her hiss. He kisses her forehead.
"Better?"
She lets herself fall to the side on a sated sigh, pulls Arthur with her and closes her eyes to feel the aftershocks of the orgasm. "Much."
Arthur props himself up over her and turns her until she's resting on her back. "I guess that means you're relaxed enough for round two?"
Ariadne squints at him. "What?"
Arthur smirks, first at her, then at Eames and before Ariadne has time to wonder if she should be scared or aroused, Arthur lowers his head to kiss his way across her chest until he reaches her left breast. She hisses again when he sets his lips against her nipple and kneads the other breast with his hand, not exactly gentle and exactly how she wants it.
She's distracted enough that it comes as a shock when Eames slides his hands underneath her and lifts her ass up so it rests on his thighs.
"Easy," Arthur admonishes, the low hum of it reverberating against her skin. He lifts his head to turn toward Eames, his gaze heavy-lidded. It lingers on her legs and he brushes a kiss against her thigh, first one, then the other, before he pulls her knees apart and exposes her to Eames.
"If only I were 15 years younger," Eames muses as he strokes the inside of her thighs. His pupils are blown wide, his lips red and swollen from kissing her and he, surely he won't, he -
Ariadne sucks in a breath on a hiss and her head falls back when Eames bends down, wipes at the lube, rests his slippery hand on her hip and sets his lips against her clit. Arthur chooses that precise moment to gently worry her nipple with his teeth. The sensation shoots through her like a lightning strike, she's still oversensitive from her first orgasm and it won't need much to push her over the edge a second time, if only he'd go a little lower, add a little more pressure there -
Eames raises his head from her clit and she fights the whine of frustration, but it's the smile he gives her which stops her short, which makes her breath hitch and her heart slam against her ribcage even harder than before. Eames' gaze travels to Arthur's hand where it rests against the point of her hip. He reaches out, grasps Arthur's hand, and pulls it toward him. Arthur raises his head from her breast and for a short moment, Ariadne thinks that this is limbo all over again, her synapses firing but finding no release.
Then Eames uncurls Arthur's hand, gives another one of those diabolic smiles and sucks two of Arthur's fingers into his mouth. They disappear behind Eames' lips past the second digit. Arthur's groan sets her skin on fire.
This time, she doesn't fight the noises clamouring free of her when Eames releases Arthur's fingers - from his mouth, not his hand - sets his lips back against her clit and pushes Arthur's wet fingers inside her. She shouts at the invasion, her back arched, away and into their hands and mouths, it's too much, too soon, but Arthur crooks his fingers and Eames curls his tongue and before she's prepared for it, she's falling into a crystal clear, intense orgasm that shakes her apart.
She reaches out to pet Eames' head when it all becomes too much and he stops with a few last, teasing licks, pulls Arthur's hand away from her. The sound of her body releasing him is obscene and she feels Arthur smirk against her ribcage.
"Shut up," she whispers, breathless, but meets Eames' grin with her own. He rests her back on the bed and she watches him climb off the mattress to walk to the bathroom. His ass is a piece of art but she doesn't have the strength to keep her head up and watch him all the way to the door.
She shivers all over, aftershocks skittering up and down her skin. Arthur chases them with his dry hand and breathes sleepy kisses underneath her breast. Ariadne closes her eyes and swims in the sensations, successfully shutting down her brain for once. He moves her a little so she's on her side and he spoons around her. Arthur's hand slows as it strokes her belly and soon, she feels his breathing even out. He's asleep before Eames even comes back with a damp washcloth to clean them.
She cracks an eye open when he's done and slides into bed next to her. "Here's a new rule," she says, stroking her hand idly along the tattoo on his right bicep, "you don't get to get off until I do."
Eames snorts a laugh. "Whatever you say."
"Exactly," she agrees, pulls him closer so his head rests between her breasts and drifts off to the sound of Arthur's light snores against her back.
***
He still thinks it should feel weirder. Less natural. It's the first time at a threesome for Eames, too, no matter what Arthur might think. But the reaction he usually has after a mistake - the racing heart, the clammy hands, the need to run - all of that is missing. Instead, he feels comfortable, as though something finally clicked into place.
For just one moment, Eames wonders how long that feeling will last, then he pushes the thought aside. Take what's on offer, don't ask too many questions. It's the safest way.
Eames finishes making drinks - coffee for Arthur and Ariadne, tea for him - though he vows to cure them of that habit soon and make them see the light. He sets Ariadne's mug on the table so she'll see it when she comes out of the bathroom.
He carries the other two mugs to the bed where Arthur's sprawled on his belly, looking intently into his 13-inch laptop. Eames rests a hand on the warm nape of Arthur's neck once he's set down the mugs. Arthur doesn't tense; he makes a low sound under his breath and Eames sees his eyes flutter shut for just one moment. Eames smiles, glides his thumb over the vulnerable patch of skin under Arthur's ear - the one Katya mentioned, damn her eyes - and says, "Morning."
Arthur shivers and catches himself, flickers a quick, grateful smile up at Eames and reaches for the mug before turning his attention back to the screen.
Eames smiles, sits on the edge of the bed and bends to kiss Arthur's naked shoulder. "Did we make the news?" he asks, knowing what Arthur's doing without having to look at the screen.
"My Finnish isn't the best, but it looks like - " Arthur stops and his entire body goes tense as a bowstring. The mug in his hand trembles, then tips in increments, spilling a lazy pool of brown liquid that seeps into the dirty concrete. Eames can tell that Arthur doesn't even notice. Arthur has stopped breathing and is putting an effort into relaxing. It fails miserably. His lips are a thin, white line.
Eames doesn't ask, just reads over Arthur's shoulder, and feels his stomach bottom out.
"Hey, guys, what's for - " Ariadne stops in the middle of the cheerful greeting, walks closer and brings the fresh, green scent of her shower gel with her when she crouches next to them. "What's wrong?"
She's calmer now than she was days ago; Eames would commend her for it if his heart wasn't trying to beat its way clean out of his chest. Both he and Arthur had been hoping to keep the full extent of her fuck-up from her a little longer, but it's too late. He swallows, tries to answer, but can't talk past the lump in his throat. He clears his throat, tries again, wills her to understand just what his next sentence means. "Saarela's dead."
***
Ariadne's mug crashes to the ground; she should probably be glad the coffee's not scalding her bare feet, but right now, she can't think for the waves of guilt that wash over her. Suddenly she understands why Arthur flipped last night, seeing his reaction in a new light.
Saarela's dead. The nerdy kid she'd finagled the program from, the guy she thought she'd keep safe by relieving him of the program - dead. Dead because she went off the plan, because she thought she was so damn clever.
Ariadne's head rings with the memory of Arthur's words. "You opened Pandora's box." She might as well have pulled the trigger last night, could have shot Saarela herself. It couldn't have made her feel any worse than she feels now.
Hands close around her upper arms, parting some of the haze that's settling around her. "There's nothing you can do now," Eames says.
"He's dead, Eames," she whispers, and oh, God, saying it out loud makes her sick to her stomach. "Dead."
Eames nods.
"If I hadn't taken the program, if I hadn't - "
"But you didn't. Feeling guilty won't bring him back to life."
His words are like a whiplash and Ariadne sobers. Eames is not gentle, he's brutally honest. Is this what it means to be intelligence? Even ex-intelligence? Being cold enough to rationalise everything and not let it get close to you?
"I killed him, Eames," she whispers, closing her eyes and sitting down hard on the bed when her legs buckle.
The hands reaching for her now are gentler. "No. They did."
"But I - "
"What ifs don't do you any good now. We're all in this."
Ariadne shakes her head, wondering if they tortured Saarela before they killed him. She remembers his shy grin, the quick wit, the unfortunate haircut over kind eyes and the guilt tries to eat her up whole.
"Hey." Arthur. "Hey, look at me." She opens her eyes to find him crouching next to Eames. Arthur reaches out a hand to brush her hair behind her ear. Ariadne flinches back.
While these men, these killers had likely tortured Saarela, she'd - They had - She feels the burn between her legs and bolts upright, her hand pressed to her mouth.
Over the sound of her own footsteps, she hears Arthur and Eames exchange a few words, then the warehouse door creaks as it opens and closes.
She barely makes it to the bathroom before she vomits black coffee and bile.
When she looks up at the mirror, the face she sees there looks unfamiliar. It's a killer's face.
***
Damn it. The door screeches shut behind him and Arthur allows himself a moment to lean his head against the rusting metal. He'd seen the inevitable result last night when she'd presented the program to him, knew in that moment Saarela was a dead man. He'd just hoped that the clients wouldn't move this fast; that Ariadne wouldn't have to find out so soon.
Arthur takes a deep breath and centres himself. What's done is done. He can't make her un-see, can't take her guilt away, he can just take her out of here and help her make amends.
He has plans. He has backup plans. His damn backup plans have backup plans. It's all a matter of collecting enough data and analysing it before he decides which one he'll use.
He dials a number he has committed to memory since the day he left Kyoto in Saito's private plane. The sun is high in the sky already, the glare hurts his eyes, and he squints. The night's rain has washed some of the dust away and the air smells fresh, but Arthur can't enjoy it, he's too intent on the phone leaving an imprint in his cheek. Nothing happens for the longest time, no connection, then finally, he gets a shrill sound that has him flinching. "Number unavailable."
Arthur frowns and dials another number, glad that Saito trusted him enough to give him all his numbers, private or official. He gets a constant busy signal on the next number, a call centre on the third, and with each failed attempt, his heart beats harder against his ribs as he begins to realise just how fucked they are.
The door to the warehouse creaks and he sees Eames and Ariadne step outside. He hangs up, opens his phone and takes out the SIM card, snaps the tiny piece of plastic in two.
"What's wrong?" Eames asks.
"I can't reach my contact," Arthur replies. He doesn't need to say anything else to make Eames understand and hopes his words won't make Ariadne suspicious. She doesn't need to know about Saito's involvement just now.
Ariadne is pale and shaken, but she visibly straightens and pulls herself together, making Arthur wonder what Eames said to her inside. "How is that relevant?" She crosses her arms over her chest.
"Saarela didn't know who we were. The guys who chased you in town might not know, either, but Arthur's employers do all too well. Arthur was referred to those employers by his contact. And now his contact unavailable?" Eames shakes his head. "Bit too much of a coincidence." He runs a hand through his hair. "We need to get out of here. Now."
Arthur nods, but Ariadne shakes her head vehemently. "We can't run now, they'll be looking for us."
"Precisely the reason we can't stay here."
"We can lay low, wait until the worst blows over and run then."
"Or we can hand the bullets to our firing squad," Eames snaps. "This isn't a discussion. Pack what you can't leave behind, burn everything else." He's in full clean-up mode now, and Arthur is stupidly glad that Eames used to play on their pursuers' team once. It might give them the only chance they have to get out of this alive. "Destroy your phone," Arthur says. "We're out of here in half an hour."
***
Part 14: Burning Bridges
Troika
Ariadne wakes curled into Eames - definitely Eames - warmed from head to toe. His breathing is slow and even and she's surprised he's not snoring. What little there is of his chest hair tickles her nose, though, and she sneezes. Vaguely mortified, she pats at the now damp spot on his chest and tries to look up, a fierce blush warming her cheeks.
Arms squeeze around her and lips press against the top of her head. "Morning, Sneezy."
"Hi," she replies in a small voice. Her breath is reflected by his chest and oh, God, that's horrible. Ariadne clamps her hand over her mouth. If she thought about continuing what they started last night, she's definitely not doing it like this.
Eames hand glides over her back, he moves to nuzzle her neck and no, no, no. If her breath is bad, then so is his and she's not having this. She has some standards. She disentangles herself from him, sits up and pushes away his wandering hand. "No kissing before we all brush our teeth."
The we all and Eames' cracked open eyes squinting toward the other - empty - side of the bed make her realise that Arthur's not in bed with them any longer.
She frowns, searches the room and finds him sitting in a chair, appealingly shirtless, nursing a cup of what she supposes is coffee. Relieved that he hasn't left, as was her first concern, Ariadne quirks a smile at him before she gets up off the bed and dashes toward the bathroom.
She's just squeezing toothpaste onto the brush when she hears Eames' voice, pitched low and still rough from sleep. "You picked up some bad habits from Cobb."
Arthur doesn't reply or maybe she just doesn't hear it. She starts to brush her teeth vigorously, trying to get rid of every bit of leftover alcohol and bad taste. One of the washcloths next to the sink is damp, which means that Arthur must have been awake for a while and has already cleaned up. She's seen, or rather heard, Arthur's morning routine a couple of mornings now. One less man to worry about having morning breath, at least.
Ariadne washes quickly, less to be presentable and more just to clean off yesterday's sweat that's been itching on her skin. When she pulls off her tanktop, though, it smells of Eames. A tingle of anticipation runs through her, knowing where it's likely going to lead once she leaves the bathroom. All right, so maybe it would be a good idea to shave her legs and under her arms. She likes being complimented for soft skin.
When she emerges, she finds Eames sitting up, looking at Arthur. He rises when he sees Ariadne and she has the distinct feeling that there was a conversation going on she didn't hear. Eames gives her a fleeting smile as she pads closer barefoot and he brushes past her to the bathroom - but not before resting his hand on Arthur's naked, bony shoulder, though, and saying, "Don't be a fool, Arthur. You've never been before. Take what's being offered."
Oh. Ariadne stops halfway to the bed. Behind her, Eames closes the bathroom door. So this is what all that was about.
"You know you won't get any better than Eames and me," she comments lightly, deliberately humming the next sentence to a familiar tune, "Think of all the fun you'd miss."
He looks away unsmiling and she can see him begin to shut down, shutting her out, shutting them out, and hell no. She won't have this. They already went too far yesterday to stop now.
She doesn't know exactly what Arthur and Eames talked about, but Arthur looks open now, exposed and thin-skinned and it kills her, bit by little bit, so she lifts her hand, raises it to his face and trails her fingertips along his sharp, now stubbled jaw, his cheek, to just underneath his lips.
"Arthur, you stupid idiot," she says gently when he flinches.
His gaze snaps to her face, open but unsure, so damn unsure, and unlike the assertive, strong Arthur she knows that she just inches forward and rests her lips against his. His walls aren't back up yet and she doesn't want to be on their wrong side when they are restored. It's not a kiss, it's just skin on skin, lips against lips. She keeps stroking her hand along his cheek, traces his ear and they share several breaths through their half-open lips. Ariadne tilts his chin and captures his bottom lip between her lips, gentle pressure. He still doesn't react noticeably, still doesn't kiss back, but slowly, slowly, he gravitates toward her. She curls her hand around his ear, strokes the skin just underneath his earlobe with the backs of her fingernails and his breath hitches. His hair - free of gel and still slightly damp from washing it - is silky and cool and she wants to run her hand through it again and again.
Finally, finally, she gets a reaction and he moves his head, just a fraction, slides against her upper lip with the slightest hint of teeth. His hand glides from her shoulder to her neck, cups the back of her head and he breathes out just as he glides his lips over hers, captures her lower lip this time and touches it with a languorous, torturous hint of tongue.
A sound struggles free of Ariadne's throat. After last night, frantic and drunk, this is slow and intimate and conscious. They both know that they can't walk away from this anymore.
It spirals from there. As though he's waking up in increments, Arthur begins to move against her, deepens the kiss and licks into her mouth. He groans when their tongues meet, pulls her against him and this is when the switch is flipped, where his hands clench against her and his hips search for friction, where he sucks on her tongue until she can't breathe, stripping small moans from her, where they break apart and they gulp in air before their mouths meet again. Her world drowns in the pounding of her heart in her head, in the way he suddenly, without any pretence, pulls her into his lap and winds her legs around his hips and rocks up and, fuck, she attempts to break away from his mouth to breathe his name, but he doesn't let her, keeps going, keeps kissing her, grinds her against him so she feels his erection rub against her panties.
A shadow falls over them and this time, Arthur pulls away; she hears him give a strangled moan and opens her eyes to find Eames next to him. Eames bending down. Eames stopping for a few long seconds, right next to them, close enough Ariadne can smell him, a heady blend of warm skin and their shared soap. She realises he's giving Arthur an out - not her, just Arthur - and wants to smack him upside the head for his fucking sense of nobility. She clenches her hand on his bicep to convey this, but then Arthur moves, reaches for the back of Eames' head to pull him into an open-mouthed kiss with one hand and grinds her against his crotch with the other and all she can get past her vocal chords is a strangled, "Oh, God."
Eames' hand curls around her neck, his other glides into Arthur's hair, bunching and likely pulling at it. They both groan and the vibration seeps into her skin and sets it on fire. Ariadne reaches out to anchor herself, but realises soon enough that the chair Arthur's sitting on is the worst possible place to be doing this. There's nothing to grab on to and no way to move safely.
She disentangles herself from the hands roaming over her skin and gets up. Her legs are wobbly, her palms damp. For a while, she just looks at Arthur and Eames kissing, tries hard not to feel left out, and misses Arthur's warmth against her. Her fault for standing up and moving away, she knows, but not entirely. They look like they've found water after a severe draught; they don't so much kiss as they breathe each other in, as though they have waited for years to do this. Some distant part of her brain reminds her that that's very likely the truth. Despite the small twinge of disappointment she feels, it's incredibly hot.
Arthur's slim and wiry against Eames' bigger build; his long fingers span the dark tattoos on Eames' skin, gliding under the white wife-beater, flexing and unflexing, kneading. She sees Eames suck on Arthur's bottom lip, hears Arthur's muted groan, nearly feels the way he bucks up into Eames the way he bucked into her earlier. Her face flushes and she moves backwards until the backs of her knees hit the futon and she sits down heavily, not elegant in the least and not caring.
Their kisses are wet and open, she hears them and feels their ghosts on her own skin, tastes Arthur on her lips and in her mouth. Unthinking, she opens the zipper of the skirt she's stupidly still wearing since last night. The silky material glides against her legs and just adds to the sensation as she kicks it off. She's already impatient.
The chair groans under their weight when Eames sinks further into Arthur. They're gorgeous together, Arthur's skin pale against Eames' tan. Ariadne watches the long muscles and sinews in his arms tighten as he holds on to Eames. She's fascinated by the veins on his arm, the jut of his wrist, and catalogues his reactions to what Eames is doing.
Eames... She doesn't think she's ever seen him this way. She knows he's focused, but right now, it seems that the only thing in his world is Arthur, like Arthur's the morning star Eames navigates by, the only thing he needs. It makes her wonder who of them wanted this more. For the moment, she is content to watch something unfold in front of her eyes that should be private but is willingly shared. Eames' muscles ripple under his skin, making the tattoos appear to be alive, as though they oscillate under Arthur's hands. His back is free of ink, though, she notes as Arthur slides his hands underneath Eames' wife-beater and pushes it up. She wants to get up and touch both of them but stays rooted on the spot. Arthur presses his fingertips against Eames' spine and Eames surges forward, both hands grabbing fistfuls of Arthur's hair. The muscles in his ass flex. From where she's sitting, Ariadne can see the outline of his erection through his dark pants, remembers the feel of it pressed against her last night. He's not a small man, a fact that makes her imagination go into overdrive. Arthur's groan settles in her belly too, hot and heavy with promise, and she decides she's had enough. She slips her hand into her panties and imagines Arthur against her, Eames inside her. It's so easy. So damn easy.
She must have made a noise because Eames chooses that very moment to look up at her. His gaze goes to her hand and she thinks she can see his pupils dilate from the distance. He stops kissing Arthur, takes Arthur's chin and directs his gaze in her direction. Both men stare at her, openly, their eyes dark. Arthur looks dishevelled, his lips kiss-swollen and a delicious, dark red. His chest rises and falls, while his hand glides compulsively over Eames' arm; Ariadne swears she can hear the quiet susurrus of hair being disturbed. Arthur looks content - no, intent, she notices with a shudder that zings to her toes when she rubs her fingertip over her clit - to watch her, but Eames scrambles to his feet, then pulls Arthur up and with him to the bed.
"Not starting without us, are you?" he murmurs. He kneels in front of her to presses a kiss to her clavicle. Arthur slides behind her on the bed and Eames takes his hand, places it on her belly while he opens her knees and slides between her thighs, holding them open wide with his shoulders. She leans down to kiss him, loses herself in the skilful glide of his lips and tongue, and finds traces of Arthur in Eames' taste.
Arthur's hands flex against her belly, then begin to roam underneath the tank top. His thumbs brush the underside of her breasts and she stops kissing Eames and lets her head fall to Arthur's chest, a move he takes advantage of immediately to kiss and nip at her exposed neck. The sting of his teeth has her inner muscles clenching, her breath coming in short gasps, the feeling accentuated by how far her thighs are spread. At the same time, Eames strokes his fingers over her hand in her panties, pressing lightly before pulling her hand out and looking at her glistening fingers.
God, Ariadne wants to kiss him again. She wants his mouth on her clit, but Eames takes her hand and sucks each of her fingers, tasting her, laving his tongue around them and giving Arthur a wicked look over her shoulders. Everything inside her contracts at the silky-soft-warm wetness of his mouth. Arthur's breath stutters as he watches, skitters over Ariadne's neck. She pulls her hand away from Eames reluctantly, already imagining that deft tongue put to better use, and Eames gets to his feet.
"Stop," she says, her voice rough. "Take it off. I want to see you."
Eames grins and makes a show of slowly, slowly stripping out of the wifebeater. Arthur takes his cue and slides her tank top up and off her from behind as well. He works his way back and up the futon as Eames crawls in with them and, what, no, wait. Ariadne makes a noise of protest, she wants him back on his knees between her legs, she wants his mouth -
"I've no objection to going down on my knees, poppet," he tells her, his voice and expression full of laughter, "but this futon is just too low for it to work."
Arthur shifts her higher on the futon and is between the two of them, then, his hands back on Ariadne's bared breasts, his eyes dark with intent. He's just beginning to lean down when Eames murmurs, "Sauce for the gander, I think," and Arthur's mouth parts on a harsh breath as Eames finds his nipple. Eames' hair tickles her bare stomach and once again she's staring, at the way Eames' lips close so perfectly over Arthur's nipple, covering his areola, how Eames' cheeks hollow and Arthur arches into the sensation. His hand rests on her breast, forgotten except for the occasional twitch. Eames eyes are closed now, as he sucks and teases, focused on Arthur and his reactions all the way.
Ariadne leans over Eames and traces his shoulderblades with her fingertips, follows the long, corded muscles from his shoulders to the swell of his ass. And what a glorious one it is, she thinks with a grin and gives into the urge to pinch. Eames flinches, lifts his head from Arthur's chest and gives her a playful glare.
"Cheeky."
"I'd say," Ariadne replies and smoothes her hand over the fabric still covering his ass. She wants more than this, though.
Eames has rested his cheek on Arthur's chest and is looking at her with laughing eyes. Arthur's hands move over his arms and back but stop at Eames waistband. A frown plays over his face.
Ariadne can see Arthur thinking, some of the haze lifting and she knows she needs to move fast if she wants to keep him with them. "Strip him," she blurts out.
Arthur's gaze snaps to her.
"Do it. Strip him." She pushes at Eames so he comes to lie on his back - something he lets her do with a still amused face - then leans over to Arthur to give him a deep kiss and whispers against his lips, "Slowly."
Arthur's eyes darken. For a moment, he hesitates, then he moves, graceful as ever, glides his hands over Eames' arms and chest and belly. He leans forward to press his lips against Eames' bellybutton and Eames squirms, torn between laugher and arousal. Arthur glides his lips lower, along the line of Eames' waistband. Eames' hips move, his erection strains against the material of his pants and Ariadne can't help but run a fingernail over the outline of it.
Eames breathes a choked "Fuck", tries to reach down and pull Arthur up for a kiss, but Ariadne interrupts his hands, interlaces her fingers with his. The pressure of his fingertips almost breaks the small bones in her hands. She keeps him occupied until she hears the unmistakeable sound of a zipper being lowered and Eames' answering breath of relief. She lets go of him and moves behind Arthur who nudges Eames' ass off the bed so he can slide the pants down and off of him.
Ariadne strokes her hands over Arthur now, kisses his long, taut back before reaching around and fiddling with his button and zipper. When she pulls Arthur's pants down, she stops with an appreciative smirk. Arthur's boxers are a sinfully smooth blue silk. She presses a kiss to his ass through the fabric. When she finally has divested him of his pants, she sits back on her haunches.
"Kiss him," she instructs. "Keep your eyes open."
Arthur moves over Eames, his thighs coming to rest on either side of Eames', but he doesn't rest his weight on him. When he leans down, he stops a mere inch away from Eames' lips and just looks, keeping himself suspended just on his arms. They're close enough they're breathing the same breath. Arthur's hair slips free from behind his ear and obscures the view when he finally dips down and kisses Eames.
They stay that way for a while, just kissing, until Eames suddenly growls, shoves both hands into Arthur's hair and pulls him against him, the kiss more aggressive and much more needy than before. Arthur's arms give out and he collapses against Eames; Ariadne sees their erections slide together and for a long frozen moment, they lie perfectly still, panting, an erotic still life.
Ariadne just stares, unblinking, unable to give any more commands. This reality is so much hotter than what she could have imagined.
After a while, Eames rolls his hips up and Arthur shudders, pushes himself up on his arms and begins to grind against Eames in earnest.
She thinks about the consequences much too late, too busy being turned on by what she sees when she watches Arthur's moves get more frantic, his breath come faster and Eames answer in kind.
"Don't - " she begins when suddenly, Arthur throws his head back, his eyes open and all pupil, his mouth parted on a desperate gasp. Eames' hands clamp around Arthur's waist, dig into his hips, press him against Eames while Eames rolls his hips up and then he, too, groans low and hoarse and lets go.
Arthur goes boneless on top of Eames, breathing heavily, his head resting on Eames' shoulder and Ariadne fights a whine of frustration. She crosses her arms over her chest, kicks their entangled legs lightly. "Just for the record? I hate you both."
Eames cracks an eye open and manages to look sheepish even as he gentles his hands through Arthur's hair. "Oops."
Ariadne sinks back on the bed with a frustrated groan and stares at the dusty, shadowed ceiling. This is not how she had imagined this would go. She knows it takes work for her to reach an orgasm, and with both men already done and ready to pass out, she'll have the equivalent of blue balls until they've recovered. Not fair, her petulant side cries out. Not fucking fair. Sure, she could get herself off, and it wouldn't be hard with the exquisite images burnt into her retina, but that's not what she wants. She's tired of her own hands. She wants them, both of them, or at least someone who isn't her. She wants a touch she doesn't know is coming.
A chuckle disturbs her morose thoughts. "Oh ye of little faith." She frowns and turns to the side to see Eames shaking his head at her. "Did you think we'd forget about you?" He tugs on Arthur's hair and Arthur lifts his head from Eames' chest. He looks a little wide-eyed and impossibly relaxed, as though layers of armour have been chipped away to make way for the man underneath. He smiles at her then, lazy and slow and something in Ariadne tightens at that, at the sudden speculative glint in his tired eyes.
"A little help?" Eames asks and Arthur nods, sits up, wholly unconcerned about the mess on his and Eames' bellies, his cock soft. He slides behind Ariadne, pulls her up and into his lap in an awkward tangle of limbs so she ends up sitting with her back against his chest, her thighs open, her knees on either side of his. The hair on his thighs causes pleasant friction against her freshly shaved legs. She's spread open this way, air hits her clit and ramps up the tension even if, as per usual, she's still not wet enough. She wonders how the hell she'll bring up the subject of lube.
Arthur distracts her from her thoughts when he secures his one arm around her waist, long fingers stroking the point of her hip, her waist. The other hand goes to her breast, just cups it and weighs it in his palm. "So lovely," he murmurs against the side of her neck, kisses just under her ear. His voice is tired and low but still crawls under her skin, making her close her eyes. She can tell he's not up to doing much else, but this alone is enough already. She feels him breathing against the side of her neck, feels his heartbeat against her back.
The creaking of plastic, of a tube being opened makes her open her eyes again. She blinks several times at the image of Eames with her small bottle of lube, squeezing some on his fingers, rubbing it to warm it up.
"How - " she tries but her throat is too dry to let her form the rest of the sentence.
Eames smirks. "You weren't quite as subtle as you thought, pet, a few days back when you got yourself off here," he says, his voice like liquid velvet. "I found it shoved under the duvet after you fell asleep."
A fierce blush creeps up Ariadne's cheeks and spreads to her chest. She has the distinct urge to hide. "You knew?"
"Darling, the entire room smelled like sex."
"Oh, damn," she breathes, mortified, and closes her eyes to avoid looking at Eames. She squirms against Arthur's hold. "Sex?"
Arthur chuckles against her neck, locks his arm around her waist to stop her movements. "That's the plan, eventually."
Before she can reply, Eames' fingers touch her, spreading the body-warm lube over her clit, and, God, oh, God. If she was ever uncertain, she now knows that he's not too tired for this at all. Eames knows exactly what he's doing. His blunt fingers tease at her, circling and stroking, so expertly, so damn knowingly, and she wants to sob with happiness that she doesn't need to explain about the lube, he just knows, he just -
Her thoughts derail when he lowers his mouth to her breast and laves at her nipple just as he pushes a finger inside of her and adds pressure to her clit at the same time. She flails, claws her hands into Arthur's thighs and feels it build and build with each new stroke of Eames' tongue and each move of his finger inside of her, but it's only when Arthur mouths at her earlobe and adds a small, stinging bite that she falls over the edge on a gasp.
Eames lets go of her breast and kisses her through her orgasm until she can't breathe and the sensations are too much and she breaks away, breathing huge lungfuls of air. Eames slides his finger out of her, the sensation making her hiss. He kisses her forehead.
"Better?"
She lets herself fall to the side on a sated sigh, pulls Arthur with her and closes her eyes to feel the aftershocks of the orgasm. "Much."
Arthur props himself up over her and turns her until she's resting on her back. "I guess that means you're relaxed enough for round two?"
Ariadne squints at him. "What?"
Arthur smirks, first at her, then at Eames and before Ariadne has time to wonder if she should be scared or aroused, Arthur lowers his head to kiss his way across her chest until he reaches her left breast. She hisses again when he sets his lips against her nipple and kneads the other breast with his hand, not exactly gentle and exactly how she wants it.
She's distracted enough that it comes as a shock when Eames slides his hands underneath her and lifts her ass up so it rests on his thighs.
"Easy," Arthur admonishes, the low hum of it reverberating against her skin. He lifts his head to turn toward Eames, his gaze heavy-lidded. It lingers on her legs and he brushes a kiss against her thigh, first one, then the other, before he pulls her knees apart and exposes her to Eames.
"If only I were 15 years younger," Eames muses as he strokes the inside of her thighs. His pupils are blown wide, his lips red and swollen from kissing her and he, surely he won't, he -
Ariadne sucks in a breath on a hiss and her head falls back when Eames bends down, wipes at the lube, rests his slippery hand on her hip and sets his lips against her clit. Arthur chooses that precise moment to gently worry her nipple with his teeth. The sensation shoots through her like a lightning strike, she's still oversensitive from her first orgasm and it won't need much to push her over the edge a second time, if only he'd go a little lower, add a little more pressure there -
Eames raises his head from her clit and she fights the whine of frustration, but it's the smile he gives her which stops her short, which makes her breath hitch and her heart slam against her ribcage even harder than before. Eames' gaze travels to Arthur's hand where it rests against the point of her hip. He reaches out, grasps Arthur's hand, and pulls it toward him. Arthur raises his head from her breast and for a short moment, Ariadne thinks that this is limbo all over again, her synapses firing but finding no release.
Then Eames uncurls Arthur's hand, gives another one of those diabolic smiles and sucks two of Arthur's fingers into his mouth. They disappear behind Eames' lips past the second digit. Arthur's groan sets her skin on fire.
This time, she doesn't fight the noises clamouring free of her when Eames releases Arthur's fingers - from his mouth, not his hand - sets his lips back against her clit and pushes Arthur's wet fingers inside her. She shouts at the invasion, her back arched, away and into their hands and mouths, it's too much, too soon, but Arthur crooks his fingers and Eames curls his tongue and before she's prepared for it, she's falling into a crystal clear, intense orgasm that shakes her apart.
She reaches out to pet Eames' head when it all becomes too much and he stops with a few last, teasing licks, pulls Arthur's hand away from her. The sound of her body releasing him is obscene and she feels Arthur smirk against her ribcage.
"Shut up," she whispers, breathless, but meets Eames' grin with her own. He rests her back on the bed and she watches him climb off the mattress to walk to the bathroom. His ass is a piece of art but she doesn't have the strength to keep her head up and watch him all the way to the door.
She shivers all over, aftershocks skittering up and down her skin. Arthur chases them with his dry hand and breathes sleepy kisses underneath her breast. Ariadne closes her eyes and swims in the sensations, successfully shutting down her brain for once. He moves her a little so she's on her side and he spoons around her. Arthur's hand slows as it strokes her belly and soon, she feels his breathing even out. He's asleep before Eames even comes back with a damp washcloth to clean them.
She cracks an eye open when he's done and slides into bed next to her. "Here's a new rule," she says, stroking her hand idly along the tattoo on his right bicep, "you don't get to get off until I do."
Eames snorts a laugh. "Whatever you say."
"Exactly," she agrees, pulls him closer so his head rests between her breasts and drifts off to the sound of Arthur's light snores against her back.
***
He still thinks it should feel weirder. Less natural. It's the first time at a threesome for Eames, too, no matter what Arthur might think. But the reaction he usually has after a mistake - the racing heart, the clammy hands, the need to run - all of that is missing. Instead, he feels comfortable, as though something finally clicked into place.
For just one moment, Eames wonders how long that feeling will last, then he pushes the thought aside. Take what's on offer, don't ask too many questions. It's the safest way.
Eames finishes making drinks - coffee for Arthur and Ariadne, tea for him - though he vows to cure them of that habit soon and make them see the light. He sets Ariadne's mug on the table so she'll see it when she comes out of the bathroom.
He carries the other two mugs to the bed where Arthur's sprawled on his belly, looking intently into his 13-inch laptop. Eames rests a hand on the warm nape of Arthur's neck once he's set down the mugs. Arthur doesn't tense; he makes a low sound under his breath and Eames sees his eyes flutter shut for just one moment. Eames smiles, glides his thumb over the vulnerable patch of skin under Arthur's ear - the one Katya mentioned, damn her eyes - and says, "Morning."
Arthur shivers and catches himself, flickers a quick, grateful smile up at Eames and reaches for the mug before turning his attention back to the screen.
Eames smiles, sits on the edge of the bed and bends to kiss Arthur's naked shoulder. "Did we make the news?" he asks, knowing what Arthur's doing without having to look at the screen.
"My Finnish isn't the best, but it looks like - " Arthur stops and his entire body goes tense as a bowstring. The mug in his hand trembles, then tips in increments, spilling a lazy pool of brown liquid that seeps into the dirty concrete. Eames can tell that Arthur doesn't even notice. Arthur has stopped breathing and is putting an effort into relaxing. It fails miserably. His lips are a thin, white line.
Eames doesn't ask, just reads over Arthur's shoulder, and feels his stomach bottom out.
"Hey, guys, what's for - " Ariadne stops in the middle of the cheerful greeting, walks closer and brings the fresh, green scent of her shower gel with her when she crouches next to them. "What's wrong?"
She's calmer now than she was days ago; Eames would commend her for it if his heart wasn't trying to beat its way clean out of his chest. Both he and Arthur had been hoping to keep the full extent of her fuck-up from her a little longer, but it's too late. He swallows, tries to answer, but can't talk past the lump in his throat. He clears his throat, tries again, wills her to understand just what his next sentence means. "Saarela's dead."
***
Ariadne's mug crashes to the ground; she should probably be glad the coffee's not scalding her bare feet, but right now, she can't think for the waves of guilt that wash over her. Suddenly she understands why Arthur flipped last night, seeing his reaction in a new light.
Saarela's dead. The nerdy kid she'd finagled the program from, the guy she thought she'd keep safe by relieving him of the program - dead. Dead because she went off the plan, because she thought she was so damn clever.
Ariadne's head rings with the memory of Arthur's words. "You opened Pandora's box." She might as well have pulled the trigger last night, could have shot Saarela herself. It couldn't have made her feel any worse than she feels now.
Hands close around her upper arms, parting some of the haze that's settling around her. "There's nothing you can do now," Eames says.
"He's dead, Eames," she whispers, and oh, God, saying it out loud makes her sick to her stomach. "Dead."
Eames nods.
"If I hadn't taken the program, if I hadn't - "
"But you didn't. Feeling guilty won't bring him back to life."
His words are like a whiplash and Ariadne sobers. Eames is not gentle, he's brutally honest. Is this what it means to be intelligence? Even ex-intelligence? Being cold enough to rationalise everything and not let it get close to you?
"I killed him, Eames," she whispers, closing her eyes and sitting down hard on the bed when her legs buckle.
The hands reaching for her now are gentler. "No. They did."
"But I - "
"What ifs don't do you any good now. We're all in this."
Ariadne shakes her head, wondering if they tortured Saarela before they killed him. She remembers his shy grin, the quick wit, the unfortunate haircut over kind eyes and the guilt tries to eat her up whole.
"Hey." Arthur. "Hey, look at me." She opens her eyes to find him crouching next to Eames. Arthur reaches out a hand to brush her hair behind her ear. Ariadne flinches back.
While these men, these killers had likely tortured Saarela, she'd - They had - She feels the burn between her legs and bolts upright, her hand pressed to her mouth.
Over the sound of her own footsteps, she hears Arthur and Eames exchange a few words, then the warehouse door creaks as it opens and closes.
She barely makes it to the bathroom before she vomits black coffee and bile.
When she looks up at the mirror, the face she sees there looks unfamiliar. It's a killer's face.
***
Damn it. The door screeches shut behind him and Arthur allows himself a moment to lean his head against the rusting metal. He'd seen the inevitable result last night when she'd presented the program to him, knew in that moment Saarela was a dead man. He'd just hoped that the clients wouldn't move this fast; that Ariadne wouldn't have to find out so soon.
Arthur takes a deep breath and centres himself. What's done is done. He can't make her un-see, can't take her guilt away, he can just take her out of here and help her make amends.
He has plans. He has backup plans. His damn backup plans have backup plans. It's all a matter of collecting enough data and analysing it before he decides which one he'll use.
He dials a number he has committed to memory since the day he left Kyoto in Saito's private plane. The sun is high in the sky already, the glare hurts his eyes, and he squints. The night's rain has washed some of the dust away and the air smells fresh, but Arthur can't enjoy it, he's too intent on the phone leaving an imprint in his cheek. Nothing happens for the longest time, no connection, then finally, he gets a shrill sound that has him flinching. "Number unavailable."
Arthur frowns and dials another number, glad that Saito trusted him enough to give him all his numbers, private or official. He gets a constant busy signal on the next number, a call centre on the third, and with each failed attempt, his heart beats harder against his ribs as he begins to realise just how fucked they are.
The door to the warehouse creaks and he sees Eames and Ariadne step outside. He hangs up, opens his phone and takes out the SIM card, snaps the tiny piece of plastic in two.
"What's wrong?" Eames asks.
"I can't reach my contact," Arthur replies. He doesn't need to say anything else to make Eames understand and hopes his words won't make Ariadne suspicious. She doesn't need to know about Saito's involvement just now.
Ariadne is pale and shaken, but she visibly straightens and pulls herself together, making Arthur wonder what Eames said to her inside. "How is that relevant?" She crosses her arms over her chest.
"Saarela didn't know who we were. The guys who chased you in town might not know, either, but Arthur's employers do all too well. Arthur was referred to those employers by his contact. And now his contact unavailable?" Eames shakes his head. "Bit too much of a coincidence." He runs a hand through his hair. "We need to get out of here. Now."
Arthur nods, but Ariadne shakes her head vehemently. "We can't run now, they'll be looking for us."
"Precisely the reason we can't stay here."
"We can lay low, wait until the worst blows over and run then."
"Or we can hand the bullets to our firing squad," Eames snaps. "This isn't a discussion. Pack what you can't leave behind, burn everything else." He's in full clean-up mode now, and Arthur is stupidly glad that Eames used to play on their pursuers' team once. It might give them the only chance they have to get out of this alive. "Destroy your phone," Arthur says. "We're out of here in half an hour."
***
Part 14: Burning Bridges