Work Text:
Ariadne is about two minutes away from screaming when Eames leans against the board closest to the door, the one with the plans for his snow-filled level on. She's hit a wall with one of the final sections on her thesis, Cobb is storming around in his section of the warehouse, snapping at either their teammates or his phone, and she can't deal with anything else on top of it. But she's stopped from saying anything by the expression on Eames' face, surprisingly serious with an edge of absolute exhaustion.
"Fancy getting out of here for somewhere a bit quieter? I'll even throw in some food."
"God, please." She slams her laptop shut and starts to gather her notes together, rubbing a hand across her forehead as Eames grabs a paper scrap and scribbles something on it. Everything haphazardly gets thrown into her bag and she trails Eames out into the main area. Ariadne heads towards the stairs down to the door but he crouches down by Arthur, currently curled up on his side on one of the recliners, hooked into the pasiv. Eames slips his note into Arthur's hand then pauses, gently brushing a stand of hair that's escaped the gel off his face, fingers lingering for a second before he stands again with the ghost of a smile.
She has absolutely no idea where they're going as she follows him out of the building, stopping briefly to grab drinks from the cafe they've all become familiar with over the last couple of months. Coffee for her because uni is the worst and she needs this section done in the next two days, and a hot chocolate monstrosity for Eames who starts to look more awake as they walk. They end up on the top floor of an apartment block overlooking one of the parks, and she doesn't even notice if he has a key or just picks the lock, only that he gets the door open and waves her over to a comfortable looking couch.
She copies him in kicking off her shoes, then falls face first into the cushions, taking the chance for a few deep breaths and listening to him move through the apartment. The radio is turned on quietly to a classic rock station, and sounds of occasional traffic and conversations float up as, she twists her head slightly to discover, Eames opens the balcony door a foot or so, a breeze ruffling her hair. It's more peaceful than Ariadne expects, even somewhere in the city suburbs.
Eames pads off round the corner and she takes a look around the room properly, its fairly large, a well provisioned kitchen area split from the lounge by a marble topped breakfast bar. There's a lot of earthy colours and dark wood, with overstuffed bookshelves, the armchair and couch cushions adding some brighter colours into the mix. The decorations are an eclectic mix, vintage Star Wars posters flank the balcony doors, but there's various ink sketches and a couple of Paris skylines with stunning sunsets or sunrises in what she thinks are oil paints. Classical statuettes next to film memorabilia and nicknacks. The less she looks at the renaissance painting hanging above the fireplace the better, she's fairly certain she last saw it in the Louvre. Altogether it's very homely and she decides she likes it.
After a few moments she sighs and wriggles her way up to sitting against one of the couch arms and, assuming Eames won’t mind, she tugs a big multicoloured crochet blanket off the back and wraps herself in it before pulling out her laptop to get started. The quiet walk and the coffee had helped jolt a few ideas free and she doesn’t want to lose them.
She’s managed to outline a handful of paragraphs before Eames reappears, hair starting to come loose from his usual style. He's dressed in baggy patchwork pants cuffed at the ankle in possibly every shade of blue imaginable and a black tank top, necklace chain with what she'd guess were dog tags and possibly a ring swinging slightly as he moves. Thick dark lines swirl over the skin of his shoulders and peak up from his chest, and she almost feels she can see images in them as he moves towards the kitchenette. He looks younger, she thinks; the clothes, the hair, the way he’s holding himself. And she thinks about forgeries and masks and the person people expect you to be. He starts tugging ingredients out of cupboards and the fridge before turning back to her with a yawn. “It's just beef and mushrooms you don’t eat, yeah?”
Blinking at him for a moment, she nods. He has been ordering most of the food if they’ve been working into the evenings, but it somehow surprises her that he’s paid that much attention. And is this familiar with the space, although a certain painting does heavily suggest that it's not a rental. "Is this your place?"
"Not quite." Which, what the fuck? He gives her a cheeky, lopsided smirk and turns back to the hob and starts adding things to the wok that quickly start spelling incredible; garlic, tomato, onion, chorizo, a spice mix she isn't familiar with.
She's managed another subsection of her thesis when Ariadne hears the click of the lock over Eames humming along to the radio. There’s no time to react, but it only opens to reveal Arthur, who offers her a tired smile and a mumbled compliment about the improvements to the hotel level as he takes off his shoes, leaning against the wall. With a longer, careful, look at her that she doesn’t know how to respond to, he drops his bag and heads to Eames.
Who catches him round the waist, smiling as Arthur slumps against him, face buried in his neck. Eames sways them side to side to the music on the radio as he stirs whatever he’s making, then murmurs into Arthur’s hair. He’s smiling as Arthur leans back searching his face for something, hand on Eames’ chest, the first time Ariadne’s seen them so openly… soft with each other. Then Arthur kisses him, other hand sliding into the hair at the base of his neck, and she hurriedly looks away. It’s not like she hadn’t guessed there were some kind of romantic feelings there, whether they were actually together or not, but the easy, casual way Arthur acted spoke of deep familiarity.
She doesn’t look up from her laptop screen until Arthur passes her to head further into the apartment, doors down the corridor opening and closing, then the faint sound of the shower coming on. She thinks about the Star Wars posters and a couple of model spaceships she’d spotted on the book shelves, about storm troopers in Arthur’s dreamscape and a glimpse of lightsaber printed socks. Arthur’s apartment then, rather than Eames’, or maybe both of theirs.
Eames settles on the armchair by her feet, scooping up a paperback book and a Nintendo ds she hadn’t realised were on the coffee table between all the papers and notebooks. Whatever he’s making is bubbling away on the hob, making the whole room smell amazing, and there’s a mixing bowl covered by a tea towel on the breakfast bar.
It doesn’t take long for Arthur to return and, god, he looks even younger than Eames, almost her age for all she knows he’s over 30. But his hair’s still damp from the shower, longer than she’d thought and curling at the ends, and he’s dressed in sweatpants and an oversized tshirt with an extremely faded image on the front, possibly the ghost of a band logo. Eames reaches over and catches the hem as he passes, “I’ve been looking for this shirt for months.”
“Not hard enough then, evidently.”
“Thief.”
“Pot. Kettle.”
A timer on Eames’ phone goes off before he can respond and they both head back into the kitchenette, Eames to grab a frying pan and his bowl and Arthur towards the bags of flour and such that’d been left out on the counter.
She takes a moment to watch them as they move around each other, easy and affectionate. Eames fries what turn out to be pan breads in garlic butter and hands Arthur things without him having to ask, fingers bushing across the small of his back as he passes. Finally, stack of bread cooling on a plate, Eames checks on his wok. Stirring it, then adding a couple more things from the fridge before setting the lid back on and wrapping himself around Arthur's back, arms round his waist and chin tucked over his shoulder, bright and laughing.
They've always been more careful topside, especially when Cobb's around; never close unless they need to be, their playful barbs turned pointed. Cool and mostly professional. But even then, they always look for each other first when they wake, a tiny brush of fingers against the back of a hand when one of them's upset, a coffee brought without asking. In the dreams when it's only the three of them, or occasionally Yusuf too, they're less restrained, Eames in particular more open. But nothing like this and something in her chest catches, tangled and privileged at being allowed to see them like this.
She only realises she's been staring, half lost in thought, when Eames moves away to start setting bowls out on the breakfast bar. And Arthur starts kneading his dough on the countertop, Eames' eyes catching on his forearms. Setting her laptop aside she stands to help, stretching out her back and following Eames' nod to the cutlery draw.
The food turns out delicious, some kind of thick tomato stew with chicken, beans and more vegetables than Ariadne thinks she's had in one meal since living with her mothers. Work is soundly ignored and they end up arguing about superhero films of all things. Arthur, turns out, is a bit of a nerd, waving his spoon to illustrate his points, and has strong opinions on Batman. Eames joins whichever of them seems to be losing, dramatic and chaotic, nodding along to her enthusiastically then siding with Arthur to rip her apart two minutes later.
She ends up on the armchair afterwards, feet tucked under her and laptop, as ever, balanced on her knees, although she's stalled a bit on how to wrap up the section. Eames is entranced by Pride and Prejudice on the tv from his position sprawled on the couch, sketchbook forgotten in one hand, as Arthur carries on in the kitchen, making something with the dough he'd set aside earlier.
The volume on the tv is turned down low and the faint strains of classical music drift up through the balcony doors. It feels like a breathing space in all the chaos of the job, everything ramping up as Saito's sources say they likely only have a few days left.
Arthur wanders over to join Eames, pressing a cider bottle, still cold from the fridge, to the back of his neck, making him flinch enough to slip onto the couch behind him. Then passing over the bottle and dropping a kiss to his temple in apology as Eames grumbles but settles against him easily. Hiding a yawn behind his hand, Arthur blinks over at her then gestures at her laptop. She hands it over; various combinations of him, Eames and Cobb have looked over almost everything she'd submitted so far, and her work had been much stronger for it. She pulls her own sketchbook out of her bag, drawing curves and arches and fluid edges of ideas just to give her hands something to do that isn't nervously picking at her shirt sleeves as Arthur types, assumedly his usual comments on grammar and reworking suggestions to improve clarity or push an idea further.
The rest of the evening goes in that vein; quiet, familiar films, the faint sounds of Paris, Ariadne’s laptop passed between the three of them until she's happy enough to submit the section, a chocolate sweet bread -like a brioche but not quite- warm from the oven, a bottle of wine open on the coffee table between them, a gentle breeze. She learns the Eames is heading back to Sydney tomorrow, to reintegrate himself with Fischer's lawyers and get any last minute details. She also learns that Arthur is ticklish, Eames getting the wind knocked out of him via an unimpressed elbow to the stomach even as he laughs.
She's slumped lower in the armchair, yawning, when Eames stands, gently dislodging Arthur. "You want to stay tonight, there's a pull out sofa in the study?" She just blinks up at him blearily, and he sticks a hand out, pulling her to her feet. "I'll take that as a yes. Darling can you tidy up and find a shirt that'll fit?"
The vaguely Arthur shaped lump on the couch waves a hand in their direction as she's guided towards the bathroom and Eames digs a toothbrush still in packaging out of a cabinet. She follows Eames' voice a few moments later into a spacious room she thankfully notes does not share a wall with what she assumes is the master bedroom. It's in much paler colours than the main room, off white with a faded mural across one of the walls, bookshelves lining another. Art supplies are messily spread over a couple of desks and an easel is set up by the big window, hidden by a cloth.
The room smells comfortingly of oil paints, and the bed Eames is setting up looks so cosy, the crochet blanket's also appeared on top of the duvet, and she can feel her dopey smile. She manages to shrug on a borrowed shirt, another of Eames' by the size, and her spare leggings grabbed from her bag but as soon as she hits the pillow she's gone.
--
Ariadne wakes after possibly the most restful night she's had since she got dragged (not exactly kicking and screaming) into dreamsharing to the smell of coffee. She blinks around, taking a moment to place her surroundings as it's definitely not her bedroom or her roommate moving around on the other side of the wall. But the pull of caffeine beats the incredibly snug bed, and she wraps the blanket like a cape and sets off to find it.
She's entirely unsurprised to find it's Arthur that's awake, dressed already for the day in slacks and a sweater, although his hair is still free from gel and curling. With a quiet "morning," he waves her towards one of the bar stools and slides a mug over, coffee already perfectly made. The remnants of the sweet bread is also out next to his laptop, and Ariadne waggles an eyebrow of a hickey on his neck that had definitely not been there last night, and is dutifully ignored beyond a slight reddening of his ears.
It takes until she finishes her first coffee and slice of bread before there's signs of life down the corridor. A couple of loud thuds, footsteps, grumbling, then the shower turns on, and Arthur glances at the clock. "I need to run to the store, I owe Eames a fry up, you want some?"
The morning passes slowly now she's submitted her thesis section, one deadline passed and her part of the job is pretty much done as far as architecture is concerned. Cobb is another matter and she's not sure if it's best to try to manage that herself or talk to Arthur. Once he's back and starts cooking he still manages to keep her coffee topped up, and explains a couple more training exercises he wants to run through with her. It's more to kill time on his end she thinks, but a half formed plan about going under with Cobb makes her agree quickly enough he eyes her strangely.
But he's stopped from asking questions by Eames entering the kitchen, shirtless and still looking slightly damp. He immediately wraps himself around Arthur and attempts to steal a piece of bacon from the frying pan, getting a rap across his knuckles for his trouble. But he's not pushed away and yawns something into Arthur's hair she's not sure even he understands as he reaches out for Arthur's mug on the counter beside them and downs it with a grimace.
With a deep sigh and begging eyes that Arthur ignores, Eames makes them both another mug, doctoring his extensively. Breakfast is quieter than last night's meal, and eaten curled up on the armchair and couch around the coffee table than anything more formal. Eames lists against Arthur, seemingly still tired, but his eyes are sharp and his hands steady where he's working on his tablet. Arthur indulges him, and Ariadne thinks about all the weapons training they've been putting her through and Eames being half a planet away by this evening, and keeps her teasing thoughts behind her teeth.
Things start moving quicker as they clear the plates away, Arthur gently prodding her towards the shower. She catches a glimpse of him starting some sort of stretching routine, before she turns the corner. The warm water helps as much as the comforting food and a good night's sleep do, and meeting her deadline. She feels looser and more relaxed, and far more ready to attempt to talk the whole Cobb thing over with Arthur.
Eames comes out of the bedroom as she heads back towards the main room, and she does a double take, stopping dead in the middle of the corridor. He's dressed in a navy suit, pocket square and all, fitted better than his usual ones and everything matching for the first time she thinks she's ever seen. Much more like Arthur when they're under than himself. He winks at her and does a little twirl, almost catching an arm on the doorframe, and she curtseys in response, fighting unsuccessfully to keep a smile off her face.
Arthur's checking the contents of a suitcase, flipping it closed and zipping it shut, as they reach the main room. Scooping up his own messenger bag, he pauses, eyes sweeping over Eames. “You'll do.”
“Darling, your talent for compliments astounds me.”
Giving them a little more privacy to say their goodbyes, Ariadne slips out the door. Even if the rest of them are likely to be following Eames to Sydney in the next few days, she can give them that much. But she's not even out of the stairwell when she hears their voices following her down. Eames pulls her into a tight hug when they reach the sidewalk, resting his chin on the top of her head before leaning back enough to kiss her temple, before beelining for a waiting taxi.
She knocks her shoulder against Arthur's, gaining nothing more than a sigh, eyes following the taxi as it heads off. With a shake of his head as it turns the corner, Arthur offers her a tired smile. “Once more unto the breach?”