The Fox, The Hare and The Tiger (2/?)
Story: The Fox, The Hare and The Tiger
Author:Cincoflex
Rating: PG13 (for now)
Pairing: Arthur/Ariadne/Eames
Summary: A grim situation bonds these three beyond friendship and into love.
Author's Notes: Beta'ed by VR_Trakowski for which I am eternally grateful.
The secret to warmth is layering, and currently he has enough on to be reasonably comfortable. The airport is modern, and it isn’t difficult to catch a taxi to take him to the Grand, and the superior suite that will be waiting there. Ariadne and Eames should be in already, and ready for the last minute briefing if all is on schedule.
He looks out the window at the passing buildings, noting the blend of Old World and New in the architecture, and wondering if Ariadne is sketching any of it. She probably is; the woman carries a notebook with her everywhere, and all sorts of pencils. Arthur has wasted a fair amount of time just watching her draw; the images of her curled up somewhere, the tiny scratching sound of her pencil on paper have him enthralled.
A lot about Ariadne has him enthralled, and it’s a situation Arthur isn’t really prepared to handle yet. He’s good with theoretical interactions, and contingency plans when it comes to the jobs, but in the face of real interactions with real people, Arthur invariably falls back to a ‘wait and see’ attitude. Working with Cobb had made that an easy position for years; being the leader of a new team makes matters more complicated for Arthur now.
And Ariadne herself multiplies that complication simply by being Ariadne.
He climbs out of the taxi, tips the driver and takes his single suitcase into the lobby of the Grand, moving to the front desk with an easy stride, just another international businessman to the casual eye. Arthur picks up his passkey, and once he’s reached his room he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket.
In yet, darling? Reads the text.
Arthur wishes it was Ariadne, but knows it isn’t. He types a reply, sets his suitcase aside, and waits for the knock on the door.
Eames slips in a few moments later, flashing a smile. “One thing I must commend you on-- your tailor dresses you nicely, Arthur.”
“I pay her enough,” comes the reply, but he follows it up with a brief smile. “Where’s Ariadne?”
“Should be done showering soon,” Eames replies. “Someone dropped a drink into her lap mid-flight and she didn’t fancy wearing orange juice for the rest of the day.”
He lounges in one of the armchairs of the room, a long relaxed figure in pale khaki dress slacks and sports coat, his Oxford shirt unbuttoned at the throat despite the weather. Arthur suspects Eames’ metabolism is higher than average; the man seems to radiate heat no matter the season.
In truth, Eames exudes more than heat, and several times in the last year, Arthur has found himself the subject of slow and deliberate scrutiny. It’s annoying and flattering and Arthur finds the best way to deal with it is simply to patiently ignore the occasional veiled invitation in Eames’ blue-grey eyes.
Arthur has been hit on before by people who’ve mistaken his dress sense and aloof demeanor as indicative of an alternative lifestyle; he has no problem in gently setting the record straight. Homosexuality is a non-issue; as long as his associates are professional and competent, they can love whomever they want as far as Arthur is concerned. His own tastes run to fairly conventional heterosexuality (outside of a few stray fantasies), and Arthur accepts that too.
In truth, life is too short to dwell on statistical norms, and there is no point in feeding Eames’ occasional passes, complimentary as they are.
“Flight okay?” Arthur asks.
Eames shrugs. “All right I suppose. Found a few interesting types to add to the repertoire. Listen, are we getting any nosh? I’m utterly starved.”
“You’re kidding. We’ve got a walk-through to do and you’re worried about food?”
“Arthur, in-flight meals are notoriously nasty and I wasn’t about to risk salmonella on the way over. Be a love and send down for a nice tea; I’m sure they do a decent one around here.”
“This is going on your hotel bill,” Arthur grumbles, picking up the house phone in one hand and the room service menu with the other. Pleased, Eames stretches out even more, flaunting his smirk as he folds his hands behind his head. When Arthur is done ordering, he shoots the Englishman a dry glare that is sunnily ignored. “Stop smirking. I hope all they have is some ancient Lipton’s in freeze-dry packets.”
“Christ, I’d rather drink l’eau de sewer,” Eames shudders. “Mercenary I may be, but some things are sacred, you know.”
Arthur waits a beat, and then crosses the room, his expression becoming serious. “Ariadne said you still had qualms about the job,” he mutters, resting one lean haunch against the arm of the sofa. “Tell me.”
Eames drops his playful attitude and rubs the back of his neck slowly. “I can’t, because it’s nothing solid. I know we’re committed for tomorrow, but I’ll be damned glad when it’s over and done. There’s just something off about our hire.”
Arthur shoves his hands in his pockets. “I checked and re-checked-Hillstrom pans out, and so does Montero Pharmaceuticals.”
“I know,” Eames replies, slightly sullen. “I did say it the feeling wasn’t solid.”
Arthur stares at him a moment longer. Eames, for all his flippant remarks and asides is astute, and his instincts have stood them all in good stead. His unease is the group’s unease, and Arthur doesn’t LIKE being uneasy.
“So we’ll be . . . careful,” Arthur tells him quietly. “Very careful.”
Eames nods back. “Yes.”
They stare at each other a moment longer, and then Eames sighs. “Bloody Bulgaria.”
A knock at the door brings Ariadne instead of Room Service; she wears jeans and a long nubbly sweater in heather with a matching knit beret and gloves.
“Dear God, aren’t you the kewpie doll today?” Eames smirks, striving to lighten the atmosphere in the room. “They let you up into a hotel room with two strange men looking like that?”
“Bulgaria is freezing!” she announces, slinking in. “Why can’t we ever get a job in Hawaii, or Cancun?”
“Because all our clients are notoriously cheap about sending us anywhere fun,” Eames replies, patting the arm of his chair to entice her closer. She settles in against it, and doesn’t resist his arm around her back in companionable support.
Arthur frowns. “They’re paying us enough that we could go to Cancun on our down time.”
“All three of us? Cool. I could use some time on the beach with a Kindle and a coconut flavored drink,” Ariadne sighs. “I’ve got a two-piece that probably still fits.”
This is not a helpful image for Arthur; he blinks a little to refocus, but the picture of Ariadne in anything two-piece is *definitely* worth considering.
Later, in the shower, with a fistful of slippery suds, well-applied.
From Eames’ lascivious smirk, it’s clear he’s considering it right now, so Arthur clears his throat loudly. “Okay, nice as that is, we do have a job ahead, and I’m not going to-”
A knock on the door interrupts whatever Arthur isn’t going to do, and when Ariadne opens it, the Room service trolley rolls in.
It isn’t Lipton’s; it’s hot, sweet Darjeeling, and even Arthur has a cup, along with a few scones.
*** *** ***
Things go smoothly. Ariadne tries not to let her nerves show, and Arthur has a point about practicing; it does make matters easier when your hands automatically know what to do around the Pasiv. She’s grateful for her wristwatch, and the fact that both Eames and Arthur went under so quickly, the two of them sprawled on the leather sofas of the VIP lounge, looking for all the world like weary travelers. Only the thin silvery lines snaking from their wrists say otherwise.
She counts the minutes, and looks again at the subject, noting his pallor. Hillstrom seems run-down and slightly disheveled; from what Arthur has uncovered, he’s on the verge of being fired from the company and it shows. Ariadne resists the urge to check the man’s pulse or brush his forehead; instead she watches the levels of somniacin drop and listens for any footsteps outside the locked door.
A minute from the last of the sedative, Ariadne carefully puts headsets on Arthur and Eames, then presses the iPod to play. Although she can’t hear it, she knows the music-Brubeck’s Take Five-is Eames’ choice and she approves of it.
One can take only so much Edith Piaf, Ariadne admits to herself.
Arthur stirs first, and she reaches for his wrist, pulling the needle out gently as she looks into his narrow gaze. He nods solemnly, which is answer enough, and pulls his headset off. Eames is waking now, humming a bit as he moves to sit up.
Within thirty seconds the Pasiv is tucked in a larger briefcase, Eames is across from Hillstrom, hidden behind a copy of Conde Nast Traveler, and Ariadne is curled on Arthur’s lap, whispering sweet nothings into his ear; the very image of young romance.
She definitely likes this camouflage part of the job; up-close, Arthur’s matching dimples are delightful, and the faint traces of his cologne make Ariadne want to squirm a bit. She keeps her back to the yawning Hillstrom, and murmurs, her tone soft. “So you got it?”
“Yep. Could you maybe not . . . wiggle?” Arthur replies, his voice slightly strained.
“Sorry-do you want me to get up?” Ariadne asks, trying not to stare too much. Arthur’s eyes are a lovely shade of brown, somewhere between chocolate and whisky. He shakes his head with flattering speed that makes her a little breathless.
“No, it’s . . . okay,” Arthur assures her, his expression both embarrassed and shyly sweet. “I just don’t want Eames making cracks about lap dances later, though. The maze was perfect, by the way.”
Ariadne dips her head in shy acknowledgement, bringing her lips close to his nearest ear, whispering into it. “So can we really go to Cancun?”
“Anytime,” Arthur agrees, trying like hell to keep his voice steady and make his tone sound romantic, in case they’re overheard. That warm breath of hers against his ear makes his inner thighs tense, and he fights the definite stirrings of an erection even as he luxuriates in the sweet press of her thighs. “Although I warn you, I burn like the albino I am.”
“Sunscreen,” Ariadne murmurs. “We’ll get you the good stuff.”
Arthur risks a glance at Eames; the other man arches an eyebrow and mouths something that looks suspiciously like ‘get a room’ but he can’t be sure. From overhead comes the muted announcement for the boarding of Air Granada’s flight to Milan.
Hillstrom rises wearily and slowly picks up his coat, making his way out of the lounge. Arthur watches him out of the corner of his eye, covering his examination by lightly toying with one of Ariadne’s tresses. The three of them wait until the man leaves, and once the lounge door closes behind him, they freeze, waiting ten seconds longer.
Eames speaks first. “Right. Let’s go. I won’t be happy until we’ve got all six of our feet planted somewhere other than here.”
“No argument,” Arthur murmurs, reluctant to let Ariadne off his lap just the same. “The Lear out there on the tarmac is ours.”
It’s not a good idea to travel together, but it was the first available flight out, and the price was right.
“Brilliant,” Eames sighs with relief, and tosses aside the magazine.
Author:Cincoflex
Rating: PG13 (for now)
Pairing: Arthur/Ariadne/Eames
Summary: A grim situation bonds these three beyond friendship and into love.
Author's Notes: Beta'ed by VR_Trakowski for which I am eternally grateful.
The secret to warmth is layering, and currently he has enough on to be reasonably comfortable. The airport is modern, and it isn’t difficult to catch a taxi to take him to the Grand, and the superior suite that will be waiting there. Ariadne and Eames should be in already, and ready for the last minute briefing if all is on schedule.
He looks out the window at the passing buildings, noting the blend of Old World and New in the architecture, and wondering if Ariadne is sketching any of it. She probably is; the woman carries a notebook with her everywhere, and all sorts of pencils. Arthur has wasted a fair amount of time just watching her draw; the images of her curled up somewhere, the tiny scratching sound of her pencil on paper have him enthralled.
A lot about Ariadne has him enthralled, and it’s a situation Arthur isn’t really prepared to handle yet. He’s good with theoretical interactions, and contingency plans when it comes to the jobs, but in the face of real interactions with real people, Arthur invariably falls back to a ‘wait and see’ attitude. Working with Cobb had made that an easy position for years; being the leader of a new team makes matters more complicated for Arthur now.
And Ariadne herself multiplies that complication simply by being Ariadne.
He climbs out of the taxi, tips the driver and takes his single suitcase into the lobby of the Grand, moving to the front desk with an easy stride, just another international businessman to the casual eye. Arthur picks up his passkey, and once he’s reached his room he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket.
In yet, darling? Reads the text.
Arthur wishes it was Ariadne, but knows it isn’t. He types a reply, sets his suitcase aside, and waits for the knock on the door.
Eames slips in a few moments later, flashing a smile. “One thing I must commend you on-- your tailor dresses you nicely, Arthur.”
“I pay her enough,” comes the reply, but he follows it up with a brief smile. “Where’s Ariadne?”
“Should be done showering soon,” Eames replies. “Someone dropped a drink into her lap mid-flight and she didn’t fancy wearing orange juice for the rest of the day.”
He lounges in one of the armchairs of the room, a long relaxed figure in pale khaki dress slacks and sports coat, his Oxford shirt unbuttoned at the throat despite the weather. Arthur suspects Eames’ metabolism is higher than average; the man seems to radiate heat no matter the season.
In truth, Eames exudes more than heat, and several times in the last year, Arthur has found himself the subject of slow and deliberate scrutiny. It’s annoying and flattering and Arthur finds the best way to deal with it is simply to patiently ignore the occasional veiled invitation in Eames’ blue-grey eyes.
Arthur has been hit on before by people who’ve mistaken his dress sense and aloof demeanor as indicative of an alternative lifestyle; he has no problem in gently setting the record straight. Homosexuality is a non-issue; as long as his associates are professional and competent, they can love whomever they want as far as Arthur is concerned. His own tastes run to fairly conventional heterosexuality (outside of a few stray fantasies), and Arthur accepts that too.
In truth, life is too short to dwell on statistical norms, and there is no point in feeding Eames’ occasional passes, complimentary as they are.
“Flight okay?” Arthur asks.
Eames shrugs. “All right I suppose. Found a few interesting types to add to the repertoire. Listen, are we getting any nosh? I’m utterly starved.”
“You’re kidding. We’ve got a walk-through to do and you’re worried about food?”
“Arthur, in-flight meals are notoriously nasty and I wasn’t about to risk salmonella on the way over. Be a love and send down for a nice tea; I’m sure they do a decent one around here.”
“This is going on your hotel bill,” Arthur grumbles, picking up the house phone in one hand and the room service menu with the other. Pleased, Eames stretches out even more, flaunting his smirk as he folds his hands behind his head. When Arthur is done ordering, he shoots the Englishman a dry glare that is sunnily ignored. “Stop smirking. I hope all they have is some ancient Lipton’s in freeze-dry packets.”
“Christ, I’d rather drink l’eau de sewer,” Eames shudders. “Mercenary I may be, but some things are sacred, you know.”
Arthur waits a beat, and then crosses the room, his expression becoming serious. “Ariadne said you still had qualms about the job,” he mutters, resting one lean haunch against the arm of the sofa. “Tell me.”
Eames drops his playful attitude and rubs the back of his neck slowly. “I can’t, because it’s nothing solid. I know we’re committed for tomorrow, but I’ll be damned glad when it’s over and done. There’s just something off about our hire.”
Arthur shoves his hands in his pockets. “I checked and re-checked-Hillstrom pans out, and so does Montero Pharmaceuticals.”
“I know,” Eames replies, slightly sullen. “I did say it the feeling wasn’t solid.”
Arthur stares at him a moment longer. Eames, for all his flippant remarks and asides is astute, and his instincts have stood them all in good stead. His unease is the group’s unease, and Arthur doesn’t LIKE being uneasy.
“So we’ll be . . . careful,” Arthur tells him quietly. “Very careful.”
Eames nods back. “Yes.”
They stare at each other a moment longer, and then Eames sighs. “Bloody Bulgaria.”
A knock at the door brings Ariadne instead of Room Service; she wears jeans and a long nubbly sweater in heather with a matching knit beret and gloves.
“Dear God, aren’t you the kewpie doll today?” Eames smirks, striving to lighten the atmosphere in the room. “They let you up into a hotel room with two strange men looking like that?”
“Bulgaria is freezing!” she announces, slinking in. “Why can’t we ever get a job in Hawaii, or Cancun?”
“Because all our clients are notoriously cheap about sending us anywhere fun,” Eames replies, patting the arm of his chair to entice her closer. She settles in against it, and doesn’t resist his arm around her back in companionable support.
Arthur frowns. “They’re paying us enough that we could go to Cancun on our down time.”
“All three of us? Cool. I could use some time on the beach with a Kindle and a coconut flavored drink,” Ariadne sighs. “I’ve got a two-piece that probably still fits.”
This is not a helpful image for Arthur; he blinks a little to refocus, but the picture of Ariadne in anything two-piece is *definitely* worth considering.
Later, in the shower, with a fistful of slippery suds, well-applied.
From Eames’ lascivious smirk, it’s clear he’s considering it right now, so Arthur clears his throat loudly. “Okay, nice as that is, we do have a job ahead, and I’m not going to-”
A knock on the door interrupts whatever Arthur isn’t going to do, and when Ariadne opens it, the Room service trolley rolls in.
It isn’t Lipton’s; it’s hot, sweet Darjeeling, and even Arthur has a cup, along with a few scones.
*** *** ***
Things go smoothly. Ariadne tries not to let her nerves show, and Arthur has a point about practicing; it does make matters easier when your hands automatically know what to do around the Pasiv. She’s grateful for her wristwatch, and the fact that both Eames and Arthur went under so quickly, the two of them sprawled on the leather sofas of the VIP lounge, looking for all the world like weary travelers. Only the thin silvery lines snaking from their wrists say otherwise.
She counts the minutes, and looks again at the subject, noting his pallor. Hillstrom seems run-down and slightly disheveled; from what Arthur has uncovered, he’s on the verge of being fired from the company and it shows. Ariadne resists the urge to check the man’s pulse or brush his forehead; instead she watches the levels of somniacin drop and listens for any footsteps outside the locked door.
A minute from the last of the sedative, Ariadne carefully puts headsets on Arthur and Eames, then presses the iPod to play. Although she can’t hear it, she knows the music-Brubeck’s Take Five-is Eames’ choice and she approves of it.
One can take only so much Edith Piaf, Ariadne admits to herself.
Arthur stirs first, and she reaches for his wrist, pulling the needle out gently as she looks into his narrow gaze. He nods solemnly, which is answer enough, and pulls his headset off. Eames is waking now, humming a bit as he moves to sit up.
Within thirty seconds the Pasiv is tucked in a larger briefcase, Eames is across from Hillstrom, hidden behind a copy of Conde Nast Traveler, and Ariadne is curled on Arthur’s lap, whispering sweet nothings into his ear; the very image of young romance.
She definitely likes this camouflage part of the job; up-close, Arthur’s matching dimples are delightful, and the faint traces of his cologne make Ariadne want to squirm a bit. She keeps her back to the yawning Hillstrom, and murmurs, her tone soft. “So you got it?”
“Yep. Could you maybe not . . . wiggle?” Arthur replies, his voice slightly strained.
“Sorry-do you want me to get up?” Ariadne asks, trying not to stare too much. Arthur’s eyes are a lovely shade of brown, somewhere between chocolate and whisky. He shakes his head with flattering speed that makes her a little breathless.
“No, it’s . . . okay,” Arthur assures her, his expression both embarrassed and shyly sweet. “I just don’t want Eames making cracks about lap dances later, though. The maze was perfect, by the way.”
Ariadne dips her head in shy acknowledgement, bringing her lips close to his nearest ear, whispering into it. “So can we really go to Cancun?”
“Anytime,” Arthur agrees, trying like hell to keep his voice steady and make his tone sound romantic, in case they’re overheard. That warm breath of hers against his ear makes his inner thighs tense, and he fights the definite stirrings of an erection even as he luxuriates in the sweet press of her thighs. “Although I warn you, I burn like the albino I am.”
“Sunscreen,” Ariadne murmurs. “We’ll get you the good stuff.”
Arthur risks a glance at Eames; the other man arches an eyebrow and mouths something that looks suspiciously like ‘get a room’ but he can’t be sure. From overhead comes the muted announcement for the boarding of Air Granada’s flight to Milan.
Hillstrom rises wearily and slowly picks up his coat, making his way out of the lounge. Arthur watches him out of the corner of his eye, covering his examination by lightly toying with one of Ariadne’s tresses. The three of them wait until the man leaves, and once the lounge door closes behind him, they freeze, waiting ten seconds longer.
Eames speaks first. “Right. Let’s go. I won’t be happy until we’ve got all six of our feet planted somewhere other than here.”
“No argument,” Arthur murmurs, reluctant to let Ariadne off his lap just the same. “The Lear out there on the tarmac is ours.”
It’s not a good idea to travel together, but it was the first available flight out, and the price was right.
“Brilliant,” Eames sighs with relief, and tosses aside the magazine.