InsaneJournal

Who: Arthur, Ariadne and Eames
Where: Arthur and Ariadne's apartment
When: BACKDATED to very early on Feb. 9th, after these posts
What: A tipsy Forger, a plastered Architect, and a very, very tolerant Point Man.
Rating/Status: OMG DRUNK; closed/complete


It was the first night off Arthur had gotten since he’d started working. He’d done little of nothing. Though, on Regulus’ suggestion, he headed down to the bookstore and picked up copies of the Harry Potter series. He’d blasted through the first three before two in the afternoon, spending the next three hours between reading the fourth and cooking himself some lunch. A bowl of ziti later, and three more chapters, Arthur hopped into the bathroom for a long shower. He didn’t hear Ariadne leave, but figured that out pretty quickly when her bedroom door was open and no one was inside.

Spending the rest of the evening reading, Arthur had gotten to the beginning of the fifth book when he heard the loud voices coming down the hall. Looking at his watch, he noted the time. Quarter to three.

"Shhhh!" Ariadne's order might have been more effective if it hadn't been quite so loud. Or quite so sibilant. She leaned against Eames as she dug in her bag for her keys, trying not to giggle. "You'll wake everyone up." Dropping her keys only once was definitely a triumph; only taking three tries to get the key in the door was a qualified success. "Don't want Arthur to kill us both..." Somewhere around the second beer Eames had convinced her that tequila was an excellent solution to the problems that were plaguing them. Right now she agreed with that diagnosis.

The door gave way to her clumsy attempts and Ariadne let out a triumphant noise. "Did it! Okay. Are... Are you coming in, or... or not?" She pushed the door open and staggered in and clapped a hand over her mouth. Oh, crap.

For all that he was a fairly big man, it was often surprising to see just how quietly Eames could move. Of course, that was when he didn't have a skinful of tequila in him, and then he wasn't quite so quiet. Still, he tended not to slam into walls or bounce off doorways; rather, his problem was more along the lines of shoddy volume control. He shushed when he was told to, then stood behind Ariadne as she tried to open the door. He had meant to be quiet, but soon he found himself muttering helpful things like "I wanted a burger," and "stick it in the hole, sweetheart", and other such things, none of which were actually useful.

Then the door was open, and Ariadne was asking if he was coming in, which was, quite frankly, a silly question. "I'm coming in. I am in dire need of tea, and I would go home but look, it's miles and miles away, and anyway your door is open now, so yes, tea! And sitting." Eames might have been talking complete arse, but he still had enough of his wits about him to realise that Ariadne hadn't moved very far after walking into her flat. He stopped just after she did, managing not to bump into her too much and then peered in at whoever was there.

"Arthur, darling" he drawled, letting the r's roll around in his mouth a little bit, "you look... Yes. mmmm, yes..." he said, then helped move Ariadne further into the room. "Smashing. Is there tea?" A winning grin would help round about here, he thought, and so he treated Arthur to one. Never mind the fact that when he'd been sober, he'd been actively trying to not act like that around Arthur. He was too drunk to care.

Well this was a headache waiting to happen. Arthur marked his page, setting the book down on the coffee table before getting up to walk toward the pair. He could smell the booze and had a hard time keeping his laughter hidden behind a thin line drawn with his lips, “Tea’s in the kitchen, Eames. You’re lucky I made some not too long ago.”

Moving past the duo, Arthur made sure the door was shut behind him. The last thing he wanted was people knocking on their door for them to quiet.

This was almost as bad as the time she'd tried to sneak in after a party and had both of her parents waiting up to catch her. Ariadne drew herself up as tall and straight as possible - a not inconsiderable feat given how the room seemed to be tilting around her - and took a few steps toward the couch. "Stale tea? Well, I never," she said, in a very poor imitation of Eames's poshest accent. This would be easier if she didn't have her boots on, she decided, so she flopped onto the couch and started working determinedly at the laces.

It was becoming increasingly difficult not to laugh at the situation, but Arthur kept a calm outward appearance. The last thing he wanted to trigger was a giggle fit between the drunken pair. Instead, he moved over to Ariadne, kneeling down to help her take her boots off, “I’m guessing I should be getting the aspirin and waters ready for you two in the morning. Possibly some buckets?”

He eased her left boot off of her tiny foot, setting it down next to the couch before starting on the other. “Unless you both think you really won’t be having hangovers in the morning.”

Eames had vanished into the kitchen as soon as Arthur mentioned making some, before laughing at what he assumed was Ariadne's impression of him. Walking back to the living room, and being very careful about it since spilt tea was lost and wasted, he paused to watch Arthur helping Ariadne, missing what was said.

Ariadne frowned at Arthur as he helped her. Not because he was helping, that was good and sweet and kind and why was he being so nice to her? But the other thing. That was it. "I don't throw up," she informed him. "Not when m'drunk. Not then." His hair was starting to come up from where it had been combed down after his shower, curls popping into existence at the ends and clustering at the base of his neck. They were downright irresistable, particularly in her drunken state. Ariadne reached out and twined a few around her fingers, not really paying attention to anything except how the hair felt against the pad of her thumb and the way it rubbed between her fingers.

"Eames gets bad hangovers," she said seriously, as if her hand was operating entirely independently of the rest of her. Perhaps it was. Her head felt pleasantly disconnected and discombobulated.

Arthur looked up from where he’d taken off the final shoe, his eyes following Ariadne’s arm from her shoulder down to where it went just out of peripheral view. He wouldn’t deny that her playing with his hair that way did in fact feel rather nice, but she was drunk. In Arthur’s mind that was a serious no go. Besides, he had Eames wandering somewhere behind him.

Speaking of, Arthur gently set Ariadne’s foot down and reached up to pull her hand gently away. His fingers smoothed over her knuckles as he placed them back in her lap, “Did you want something to drink though? Or did you guys need something to put in your stomachs?”

They made a lovely couple, Eames thought. Which was probably the wrong thing for him to think, but he couldn't deny the fact that they did look incredibly good together. He even smiled to himself as he watched Ariadne playing with Arthur's hair, something he loved to do... had loved to do. Just as he loved how Ariadne would do the same to him if she got the chance. Still ignoring anything that was said, which was a fair indicator that Eames was actually Far Too Drunk, he just watched as Arthur reached up for her hand and ran his fingers over her skin, and bloody hell... Clearly, he was determined to torture himself.

"Arthur. Arthur, darling, this tea. Is it, did you, is it my tea? It tastes like my tea, a bit. I think," he said, more to let them know he was there than out of any need to know the answer, and then carefully made his way over to the couch where he sat down beside Ariadne. "Sweetheart, here. Tea. Drink some."

Ariadne's mouth twisted into a pout as Arthur removed her hand from his hair. Why was he doing that? It felt nice and Eames liked when she did it and this Arthur didn't - oh. Maybe that was why. She tangled her fingers with his and looked up as Eames spoke. "Your tea? What's wrong with my tea?" Didn't she have the same teabags Eames did? Tea was never something she would care about to the extent of researching different varietals and carefully calculating brew times. But she obediently took the mug and sipped some, still looking at Arthur and his curls and the long line of his throat. Oh, hell.

"Eames. Eames, why did you let me drink tequila?" It wasn't as much of a non sequitur as it seemed. "Thought you weren't going to get me into any more trouble." She passed the mug back and leaned against her friend, hand drifting up towards Arthur's hair again.

As much as Arthur would have liked to have leaned up into that touch, he distanced himself, moving quietly into the kitchen as the pair discussed tea. He pulled out a loaf of bread and stuck a few slices into the toaster. As a preemptive move, Arthur pulled out a bottle of aspirin. He was certain one or both would need it in the morning. He wasn’t going to take any chances with Ariadne’s defiant protest on the fact that she did not throw up, and would be putting an extra garbage can next to her bed. As for Eames...

Arthur wasn’t sure what he was going to do with him. He could be utterly cruel and send the man on his way, but he knew that he wouldn’t. He’d grab an extra pillow out of his room and his comforter and at least give the man that.

Turning back over to the drunkies on the couch, Arthur asked, “Did you two eat before you started drinking?”

Eames had sprawled back on the couch, and was absently playing with a lock of Ariadne's hair with his free hand when Arthur came back in. He’d apparently forgotten about his mug of tea, which was sitting on his knee, but he had a fairly tight grip on the handle just in case the room decided to tilt or spin round or something else just as awful. At the sound of Arthur's voice, he smiled, all slow and lazy, and let his eyes shut for a moment. "mmhmm. We ate in that place with the curry. Excellent curry, Arthur, you'd love it. Take you later, okay?"

He let Ariadne's hair drop, before moving his hand to rest between her shoulderblades, rubbing at her back very slowly. "Should do this again, love. All of us, yeah."

Ariadne's eyes had started to close as Eames rubbed at her back. He was very comfortable, she thought, and nodded. "Take Arthur next time. Arthur? Arthur, you should come with us. It'd be good." She opened her eyes and attempted to look up at Eames's face. "What's he like? When he's drunk. Does he get drunk?" Or did he just never have fun?

Eames laughed at that, his eyes still shut and his limbs all loose and almost-sleepy. "I'll never tell. Promised. No telling. Anyway, my Arthur's like a, a... a robot or something. You know that. But he'd like the curry. Durban curry, darling. Sets fire to your innards, but in the good way, you know? Tequila and beer and curry. Excellent night. Really."

He opened his eyes then, and moved his hand to Ariadne's shoulder, then tugged very gently so that she'd slump back against him. "Sweetheart. Your name. It's, it's lovely, but... it has so many vowels in... hardly any letters. Did you know? Did you? Not as many as in tequila, though."

Arthur smiled a little when he heard Eames, he knew he shouldn’t but it was actually a bit...comforting. He shook it off though as he brought over two pieces of toast for the pair, trying to ignore the affectionate proximity they were keeping. “I like curry but it depends on how hot it is. You used the phrase shit fire the last time we all went out and you tasted mine. That would be about how hot I like it.”

Smoothing his quickly drying and curling hair, Arthur stood watch over Ariadne, and then over Eames. It was a nice switch compared to what they’d all been through once they’d arrived. Well, what he’d been through. As far as he knew they’d been through hell and back. It was a nice change to see everyone smiling. “I’m glad you two had a good night though. Even more glad that you didn’t manage any harm to yourself or others as far as I’m aware.”

"I like my innards," Ariadne said sulkily, letting herself be pulled back and nestling against Eames. His broad chest was awfully comfortable. Really, she didn't spend enough time with him like this. Except when she'd slept over the other night. But it should've happened more often. "And mine has more... more..." She racked her brains for the words but gave up quickly. "More than yours." Counting on her fingers proved troublesome.

Arthur's voice made her closing eyes struggle open again, and she looked up at him with confusion. "You're not a robot, right? A - a curry-powered robot?" It seemed like a reasonable question. There were aliens here. Robots didn't strike her as that far outside the realm of possibility. "Sit down. You're too tall," she ordered. Too tall and too far away, she decided, and she reached for his hand to try and pull him down on the couch. "Nobody got hurt. We're better than that. Very... very professional. I can't be that drunk, I said professional." Perfectly sound logic.

“No, not a robot, or a curry-powered one either,” Arthur smiled at her, moving over to offer an arm, “Let’s get you to bed before I have to carry you.” Putting a knee to the couch, he leaned in over her, his arm slipping behind her lower back to lift her up. He looked at Eames as he started to pull her up, “Don’t think you’re going to your own bed tonight. Hang out for a bit, this shouldn’t take me too long.”

Looking down at her smaller body, he smiled, “You’re lucky you hardly weigh anything. It makes it much easier to carry your drunk butt around.”

Frowning, Eames watched as Arthur lifted a struggling Ariadne. This was wrong, he thought. They needed to sit out on the couch together, all three of them. This much was obvious, especially since there was tea to be drunk and toast to be eaten, and Arthur should have known all of this already. Making sure that his tea was out of the way on the coffee table, Eames reached out towards Arthur. Grabbing hold of the other man's forearm, he grinned up at him suddenly and then tugged them both back down.

Being tiny sucked, and Ariadne was well aware of the many downsides. Her wriggling in Arthur's grasp was mostly ineffectual, as was the weak punch she landed on his chest. But then the room really did begin to tilt. For a moment she wondered if they were in a dream and had been tipped over, but then reality reasserted itself and they were tumbling down onto the couch and on top of Eames.

It wasn't as uncomfortable as it should have been. Ariadne found herself sandwiched between the reassuring bulk of Eames and a very tense Arthur, who had managed to catch himself somehow and not end up with his face mashed into her chest. She wasn't entirely sure where his hands were, and her leg was at an odd angle, but all in all it was fairly close to things she'd been picturing in her head. Suddenly it was all far too funny, and she giggled. "Got him right where we wanted, huh?"

At the strong pull of Eames’ hand and Ariadne’s wiggling body, Arthur had no chance of staying upright. Naturally, he turned Ariadne’s body toward the couch, letting her fall onto Eames, his left hand managing to clutch the top of the couch and his right hand dropped down between her hip and onto Eames’ thigh. He very narrowly missed landing face first into Ariadne’s chest, but he was close enough. Slowly trailing gaze up the front of her shirt to her face, he gave them both a look of slight irritation. He was trying in vain to hide a small smile. “If you both were trying to kill me you’re going to have to try a lot harder.”

Both of them slammed into him, and Eames grunted as the air was knocked out of him a bit, but then he realised where Arthur's hand was, and where Arthur's face almost was, and he couldn't help but laugh at what both of them said. "Darling, if you're looking for a little death, I'll try as hard as you like," he said with a fairly good attempt at a leer, for all that it was incredibly drunken, "unless you're looking to get lost down Ariadne's top, in which case..." He shrugged after that, before carefully running his hand down Arthur's forearm and letting his fingers rest on the other man’s pulse point.

Being drunk made this much easier than it would have been otherwise. Normally Ariadne would have been nervous, afraid to move for fear of disrupting the delicate balance between them. Instead she was just terribly amused. Shifting a little to unbend her leg, Ariadne ended up with it hooked around Arthur. Smoothly done, she thought to herself, and laughed again. Her fingers came up and tangled in Arthur's hair again. "You could have asked," she said with a smile, nails scratching very gently against his scalp. "Eames, will you be mad if I kiss him?" Because naturally she had to get his permission. She didn't want him to be mad at her, of course.

Was she asking Eames for permission to kiss him? Arthur’s head swam a little while the events that had taken place over the last thirty seconds had him confused. Eames had pulled them both back down, Arthur was doing his best not to fall too much into Ariadne’s hand each time her fingers threaded through his hair, and she was now asking if Eames would be upset if she kissed him. Fighting to try and pull away, Arthur looked at Ariadne, “This isn’t fair to either of us. You’re drunk.”

“In vino veritas, Arthur,” Eames murmured, “and possibly in tequila and beer, too.” Ariadne laughed at that, reaching up with her free hand till she caught Eames's fingers in her own. It felt right, being here between both of them.

"He's right. I'd kiss you. I want to kiss you. Like, all the time." She pulled Arthur's face up a little closer to hers, very serious now. "Not just 'cause of - I mean. I'm only saying it because. But. I still want to."

Eames’ words were true. Arthur knew that better than most. When he drank he would answer most any question and not think for one second about the repercussions. That was why Arthur usually drank alone. But what was going on before him was torture. There was something strong he felt for Ariadne, but hearing her say what she wanted, in the condition she was in, wasn’t fair. Arthur wasn’t the type to take advantage, he would feel incredibly guilty if she regretted any of this.

He was never one that dealt with emotions very well, he wouldn't deny it. Arthur’s eyes shut tightly as he reached to pull her hand from his face. He pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead and stood. Arthur wasn’t embarrassed, but his ears still burned hot as did his neck. And sadly, he couldn't bring himself to look at either of them. Smoothing a hand through his now ruffled and unkempt hair, Arthur picked up his book and headed toward the hallway. His voice had returned to its business tone, “You two should get some rest. There’s aspirin on the counter when you wake up.”

"Cheers, Arthur! Very professional of you," Eames called after him, tilting his head back to see if he could see where the other man was at all. He couldn't, so he turned back to look down at Ariadne, letting his arm rest on her stomach since she was still sort-of sprawling over him. "At least... At least one of us got a kiss from him, eh?"

Closing his eyes, he let his head fall back against the couch again. Very Important Things had just happened, and yet he really couldn't bring himself to even think about it. He was just so bloody tired. Tired in general, tired of trying to act normal around the other man, and then there was whatever was happening with Ariadne, and God Almighty, he'd had far too much to drink to even begin working things out. And had he just said those things out loud?

Ariadne was currently blinking very hard in order to prevent the tears she could feel from welling up and spilling down into her ears. She wasn't sure what she'd expected, but a kiss on the forehead as if she were a fucking child was definitely not it. The hand that had been in Arthur's hair came up to cover her face, which felt very hot. "I fucked it up," she said bleakly, eyes shut now. "I shouldn't have even started. I... m'sorry I even asked. Oh god, do you hate me too now?" Her mood was crashing from euphoric to maudlin and Eames was going to get the brunt of it.

What? "What? I don't hate you, love. I don't. I couldn't, you know? Arthur's just... he's a dick. Yeah. No...Nowhere, not as bad as Cobb, but sometimes he does stupid things. Hey. Hey, Ariadne. Hey. It's okay, love. Come on..." and Eames clumsily tried his very best to pull her into a hug.

It was enough to get her to roll towards him, and Ariadne found herself cradled awkwardly against the forger's chest, face mashed into his bright shirt. "This sucks," she mumbled, squeezing her eyes shut. Not only was she entirely too drunk for this, but she'd have to wake up in the morning and face Arthur. At least in Paris she'd been able to retreat to her own apartment. If only she'd thought that through before her ill-fated attempt at - seduction, or whatever the hell that had been.

Ariadne managed to pull away and slide off Eames's lap, standing and rubbing her face. "I'm... I'm really sorry, Eames. I am." Sorry that she'd brought things out into the open, and that now she was forcing Eames to deal with her issues when he had enough problems of his own. "Get some sleep, okay?"

“mmm, ‘kay,” he murmured, then reached over and caught her hand as his eyes slid shut. Pulling her close once more, he laughed sleepily as she fell on him once more, and then decided, the hell with it. The kiss he’d intended for the back of her hand was now aimed at her lips. Somehow. He let go of her hand and reaching up, found her face, then carefully gave her a very nice and not all that slobbery goodnight kiss. “Night, love,” he managed, then fell asleep where he sat.