Arthur wakes to high pitched screams. It takes three seconds of scanning the room for threats, Glock in hand, before he’s fully awake and aware of his surroundings. He quickly turns on the floor lamp next to the king-sized bed, knowing the small Pooh Bear-shaped night light in the corner won’t be nearly bright enough to comfort Ariadne. Eames is also awake and already stroking Ariadne’s hair and whispering in her ear, “Shh, love, it’s alright, you’re awake. We’re right here, everything’s okay.” She’s stopped screaming but her choked whimpering and the tears still streaming down her face fill Arthur with a rage hot enough to burn down entire continents. He ruthlessly quashes his anger, shoving it behind an iron door in his head for later.
He puts the gun back on the bedside table and moves closer to the middle of the bed where Ariadne’s trembling body is sandwiched between him and Eames. Her eyes are wide and glassy and she’s clutching her totem so tightly that Arthur can see a few drops of fresh blood staining the bandage he’d wrapped around her small hand to prevent the bishop’s sharp edges from digging into her palm.
“Oh God, oh God, my hands…” Her voice is shaky and terrified, hoarse from screaming, and Arthur bites back a curse. He should have made it last longer; the sadistic bastard who’d tortured her on their last job had died far too quickly.
“Ari, it’s okay, look, your hands are fine, see?” Arthur gently lifts her right hand up to her eye level and carefully threads their fingers together, watches her eyes take in each slender, unblemished finger. “Nothing missing. You’re okay. I promise you’re okay.”
She’s still shaking but her breathing is no longer completely erratic so Arthur uses his free hand to cup her jaw and rub his thumb over her cheek while Eames continues whispering comforting words into her hair and wipes away her tears.
They lay like that for ten minutes, barely touching, just holding her hand and whispering to her, letting her test her reality over and over, until the tremors subside and her body relaxes a fraction. Without releasing her grip on her totem, she reaches for them both, one hand toward Eames and one toward Arthur, and they both scoot closer.
“I don’t want to go back to sleep,” she whispers.
Eames smiles brightly at her and leans down to kiss her cheek. “I’ve always said that sleep was overrated.”
“Liar,” she says and her lips curve slightly. “You’d still be in bed while the four horsemen were galloping over the horizon.”
Arthur meets Eames’ eyes and sees his own rising joy reflected in the other man’s expression. This is the closest she’s come to smiling in three weeks.
Eames shifts so that Ariadne’s head is tucked neatly under his chin and curls one muscular, inked arm under her shoulders, pulling her close. “Maybe I just think insomniacs are sexy.”
“That’s because you’ve got a hard-on for Edward Norton in Fight Club,” says Arthur. He kisses Ariadne’s shoulder and moves closer, laying his arm over her waist and tangling his legs with hers.
Eames hums in agreement. “I have excellent taste.”
“Whatever,” Ariadne says. “You think Hugh Grant is cute.”
“I find his acting very convincing.”
“Yes,” says Arthur. “It’s amazing how well he camouflages his womanizing ways with his charming accent in all those pointless romantic comedies.”
“Bridget Jones’s Diary is a classic, Arthur!”
The three of them debate the merits of various actors and movies until dawn. With warm, golden sunlight chasing away the shadows from their bedroom, Ariadne finally relaxes enough to sleep peacefully between Arthur and Eames, their limbs still tangled together.
OT3 H/C?
He puts the gun back on the bedside table and moves closer to the middle of the bed where Ariadne’s trembling body is sandwiched between him and Eames. Her eyes are wide and glassy and she’s clutching her totem so tightly that Arthur can see a few drops of fresh blood staining the bandage he’d wrapped around her small hand to prevent the bishop’s sharp edges from digging into her palm.
“Oh God, oh God, my hands…” Her voice is shaky and terrified, hoarse from screaming, and Arthur bites back a curse. He should have made it last longer; the sadistic bastard who’d tortured her on their last job had died far too quickly.
“Ari, it’s okay, look, your hands are fine, see?” Arthur gently lifts her right hand up to her eye level and carefully threads their fingers together, watches her eyes take in each slender, unblemished finger. “Nothing missing. You’re okay. I promise you’re okay.”
She’s still shaking but her breathing is no longer completely erratic so Arthur uses his free hand to cup her jaw and rub his thumb over her cheek while Eames continues whispering comforting words into her hair and wipes away her tears.
They lay like that for ten minutes, barely touching, just holding her hand and whispering to her, letting her test her reality over and over, until the tremors subside and her body relaxes a fraction. Without releasing her grip on her totem, she reaches for them both, one hand toward Eames and one toward Arthur, and they both scoot closer.
“I don’t want to go back to sleep,” she whispers.
Eames smiles brightly at her and leans down to kiss her cheek. “I’ve always said that sleep was overrated.”
“Liar,” she says and her lips curve slightly. “You’d still be in bed while the four horsemen were galloping over the horizon.”
Arthur meets Eames’ eyes and sees his own rising joy reflected in the other man’s expression. This is the closest she’s come to smiling in three weeks.
Eames shifts so that Ariadne’s head is tucked neatly under his chin and curls one muscular, inked arm under her shoulders, pulling her close. “Maybe I just think insomniacs are sexy.”
“That’s because you’ve got a hard-on for Edward Norton in Fight Club,” says Arthur. He kisses Ariadne’s shoulder and moves closer, laying his arm over her waist and tangling his legs with hers.
Eames hums in agreement. “I have excellent taste.”
“Whatever,” Ariadne says. “You think Hugh Grant is cute.”
“I find his acting very convincing.”
“Yes,” says Arthur. “It’s amazing how well he camouflages his womanizing ways with his charming accent in all those pointless romantic comedies.”
“Bridget Jones’s Diary is a classic, Arthur!”
The three of them debate the merits of various actors and movies until dawn. With warm, golden sunlight chasing away the shadows from their bedroom, Ariadne finally relaxes enough to sleep peacefully between Arthur and Eames, their limbs still tangled together.