The next two weeks are good; the fish are biting, the sauna feels wonderful and even the unremitting cold is held at bay by the warmth of the fire and the bed. Arthur finds himself to be a fairly good fisherman; old skills return and providing food gives him a sense of pride.

He toys with the idea of hunting rabbit or maybe deer; they've seen a few in the distance, and Arthur knows he could hit one, but his talents at field dressing are limited, and the whole venture is bound to be more trouble than it's worth at the moment. Besides, Arthur reasons, the sound of a rifle would definitely announce they were here.

So far the only signs of civilization they've encountered are a few jets passing far overhead, usually near dawn. Eames calculates that they're probably the run from St. Petersburg to some place in Finland, and seeing them makes Arthur uneasy.

Sure he misses civilization. God, the luxuries of hot water, and indoor plumbing will be great to use again. Wearing clothing that's not grey and mildewed would be fantastic; Arthur thinks of his wardrobe back in Paris with a sigh of longing. Hell, just having boots that he doesn't have to share with Eames would be wonderful. Simple things like coffee and Email and toothpaste are what Arthur misses on a daily basis, although he tries not to bitch about it.

And yet . . . and yet, this isolation has been, IS, good. It's pared away the distractions and left him fully aware of what really matters to him now. Arthur's always known he could rely on Eames, and he'd been aware of respecting Ariadne, but now, the ties to them and between them are much deeper and more complicated. It's love, yes—Arthur is smart enough to admit that at least to himself, but it's more than love too. It's knowing that even through arguments and frustration and fear, the sardonic Englishman and the wry Architect are devoted to him; mates, partners, sweethearts and companions all rolled into a pair of unique lovers.

Never, Arthur realizes, did he ever think he'd have ties like this. Arthur has had friends of both sexes, and lovers of one, but the topsy-turvy ease of having both is still a bit . . . mindboggling. Not that he and Eames have done more than kiss and indulge in some mutual handjobs so far.

Arthur thought it would be uncomfortable and awkward, but given how gentle and aroused Eames was, the whole experience was unexpectedly tender, and Ariadne was clearly pleased to sit back and watch quietly. For his part, Eames made it clear that he's more than happy to respect Arthur's limits, but Arthur isn't too sure what his limits are anymore. Kissing Eames is as sensual and as arousing as kissing Ariadne, but different.

Different in an interesting way. An unexpected way.

Then again, being in bed with two other people who are making love and watching them is also something Arthur never thought he'd be a part of either. He's not a prude, nor is he inexperienced, merely an intensely private man, so the unexpected revelation that watching Ariadne and Eames fucking is intensely arousing is a mixed blessing that keeps him on his toes.

And the hell of it is, Arthur realizes that the three of them can't tell Cobb about this. Not right away, at least. Arthur knows that although Dominic Cobb is one of the most open-minded men on the face of the earth, he's also a man deeply scarred by his own emotional mistakes. Any hint that the team has become more than a team is certain to make him re-consider keeping them together professionally, and *that* would be disastrous. So the relationship will have to be kept under wraps for the moment, until the three of them can prove to Dom that in their case, love won't be a detriment to Extraction.

Yet the thought of getting back to work leaves Arthur feeling oddly ambivalent.

Part of it is the too-recent-past, and all the forced Dreaming he, Eames and Ariadne have done; Arthur can't help but feel a surge of anxiety at the thought of going under again right now. He's not afraid, but the negative conditioning is there, and it will take a while to overcome that initial apprehension. That's bad, because in Extractions, any hesitation could be deadly.

He's got money salted away, certainly enough to live on for a decade or more, and the temptation to take a break is attractive, but Arthur's curious too, at who else has been affected by Net Room, and what the market for Extractions is like right now.

Still, the memory of Ariadne's wistful request to go to Cancun comes to mind time and time again, and Arthur finds himself wondering what the hell he'll be doing once Cobb gets them rescued.

000ooo000ooo000

Ariadne hopes that they get rescued pretty damned soon. She's tired of canned soup and no drawing paper. She spends the better part of an afternoon drawing designs on the frosted windowpanes, frustrated beyond belief at how temporary the patterns are. It's only when she tries to concentrate on a particular design that she hears Tyro growl.

She listens, and very faintly, Ariadne hears a low buzz that sends a shock of recognition along her spine. That sound; low and angry, like a massive hornet-

"Julian! Arthur!" she calls urgently, rising up and peering through the glass. At her feet, Tyro is alert, ears forward, little gruffly chuffs coming out of him, warning the distant sound to back off.

Julian reaches her first, his hands full of tangled fishing line. "Love?" he demands, his expression worried. She cuts him off, cocking her head again, and after a second, Ariadne sees that he hears it too. His face grows slightly grim. "Snowmobiles. More than one. Arthur!"

There's no answer, and the two of them stare at each other a second in silent panic.

"Outhouse," Ariadne mutters. "Oh God, what a time to pee."

"If he's out there, then he's heard it already," Eames predicts dryly. "You need to get out of sight. Take the dog and stay hidden until we've checked it out."

Ariadne wants to argue, but as she watches Eames pull out the rifle and load it, every movement efficient, she thinks better and nods. She can shoot, but her gun skills are amateur compared to those of Eames and Arthur; getting in the way is a bad idea.

Carefully she whistles to Tyro, and they go up the stairs. Ariadne stands by the window listening carefully. At this angle, no one will see her, and her view of the lake and road is limited, but it's better than nothing.

For several minutes nothing happens. The sound of the snowmobiles grows louder then softer, but they don't actually seem any closer. Ariadne hears Arthur come in and have a low, urgent discussion with Eames before he calls up to her. "Ari, do you have a weapon?"

She glances at Tyro, who wags his tail. "No."

The sound of Arthur charging up the steps seems louder than usual, and he's there, holding out the stun gun, his expression that bland look he has when things are serious. Ariadne reaches out and takes it, her gaze forcing him to respond.

"We don't know who it is yet," he tells her reluctantly. "If you hear us speaking English, it should be all right; if it's French, stay put."

Ariadne nods, gripping the taser tightly. Suddenly, for an unreasonable moment, all she really wants is for the afternoon to be boring again.

Arthur slips an arm around her shoulders and kisses her hard, bringing her back to the here and now before he heads back down the stairs again.

She looks out the limited view that the window offers, and waits, every muscle tense.

Fears rise up with painful swiftness, and Ariadne shivers, remembering the cold of the cells, and the mind-numbing boredom of the weeks broken up by the crapshoot of drugged Dreams.

Not that; not those, she prays. Not again. It scares her how her fear is morphing into anger so, so swiftly. She thinks of Arthur and Eames, and the fury within her sharpens against the nameless beings out there on the snowmobiles, threatening the two she loves. Ariadne grits her teeth and it's only when Tyro whimpers that she realizes she's growled a little herself.

Then one of the snowmobile engines blares, and she knows it's close, passing somewhere along the road between the cabin and the pier.

Did they go out there today? Are there visible footprints in the snow? Ariadne's fingers tighten on the taser until her knuckles are white and bloodless.

More waiting, and somewhere in the middle of it, Ariadne decides that hiding upstairs is stupid; she'll stand with Julian and Arthur where she belongs, damn it. Ariadne paces to the stairs and heads down them.

A new sound reaches her, and for a moment she's confused. It's been months since Ariadne heard anything other than voices and random sounds, but this is music.

She grips the railing with one hand, and closes her eyes, feeling a sense of vertigo and deja-vu.

Is this . . .

A . . .

kick?

000ooo000ooo000

The music is loud enough to echo through the air, and Eames knows the tune all too well; he looks at Arthur, who gives a nod of acknowledgement as they brace themselves against the side of the downstairs window.

"You call, love," Eames whispers to him. "Dream? Reality?"

"If this has been MY dream, I would have thought up rooms at the George V and not some crummy cabin in the woods," Arthur snaps back. "And nobody outside of the Inception job knew about the Piaf kick. It *has* to be Cobb."

"Good point," Eames agrees. "So how do we play this?"

Arthur doesn't respond right away because the sound of the snowmobiles has gotten loud enough to indicate they're just a few yards off. Eames feels his heart thumping hard, reacting to the adrenaline coursing through him, tensing his body, sharpening his senses.

It's all at stake; everything now—take the risk that it's Cobb's people out there and signal them, or hold back and wait for further proof. He lifts the edge of the curtain with the muzzle of the shotgun, and peeks out while Arthur does the same thing from the other side.

The snowmobile is bright blue, startlingly so against the snow. Eames notes it's a two seater but holds only the operator, who is in a snowsuit and goggles, long blonde hair streaming down. There seems to be some sort of design on the front of the suit.

"Jesus—look at his chest," Arthur mutters to Eames. As the rider gets off the snowmobile, the design becomes more visible.

It's two crossed lines, and in each quadrant is a familiar shape embroidered on the outfit: One shows a die, the other a poker chip, the next a chess bishop and the last design is a small, silver top.

"Oh bloody hell!" Eames breathes, just as Ariadne comes down the stairs. "First Edith, and now this; I think we're seeing the cavalry, loves!"

Arthur nods tightly. "All four. Net Room might know ours, but they wouldn't know Dom's. All right, I'm going out—cover me from the window until I clear it."

"Arthur!" Ariadne calls, and darts over, kissing him. Arthur kisses her back and slips out of her arms to open the door. He steps out, and Eames sees the snow-mobiler look up at him.

"Mister Brewster?" the other man asks politely, in accented English.

"Who wants to know?" Arthur replies in a neutral tone, the gun in his hand obvious.

"My name is Pirkka Koskinen, and I'm here to take you to see Mr. Charles," the other man replies uncertainly, eyeing the weapon. "Yes?"

"Prove it," Arthur demands, and Eames is glad that even then, he's being cautious. Koskinen pats his pocket, and after being given permission to go into it, pulls out a paper, handing it to Arthur.

As Eames watches him read the note, he sees Arthur's shoulders loosen, watches him lower the gun. A second snowmobile pulls up, and that's when Arthur looks to the cabin and nods, a faint smile on his face.

The next half hour is almost like a dream; Koskinen's partner is a doctor, who checks them over briefly, and then cell phones come out; Dom is on the speaker, his voice clearly relieved.

"I'm in Paris; I can be in Helsinki in a day," he assures them. "Koskinen has your passports and we're tracking your whole party now. Christ, don't ever do this to me again, guys—"

"Yeah, well it wasn't exactly intentional," Arthur growls at the phone. "Trust me."

That makes Dom laugh, and Eames feels a twinge of . . . jealousy at the clear and easy camaraderie with Arthur. He knows perfectly well that the two of them have an old and long-standing friendship, so this flicker of reaction is unexpected. Eames clears his throat, and pushes his annoyance aside.

"Right, so how do you plan on getting the four of us out, then?"

There's a pause on the line, and then Dom asks uncertainly, "Uh, the four of you?"

"That's right; we've had a little addition since we last spoke with you" Eames informs him, shooting a glance from Ariadne to Arthur and then down to Tyro.

Koskinen looks amused; over the line, Dom inhales sharply.

"Eames—!"

"—It's all right, Mr. Charles," Koskinen breaks in smoothly. "We can transport the . . .um . . . little one as well."

It's a giddy moment; Ariadne has been holding back her giggles, but can't anymore, and lets them out. Eames laughs as well, and even Arthur chuckles before picking up the phone. "Just so you know, Dom-he's got Eames' eyes."

"And Arthur's ears," Eames calls out, wanting the last word, "very definitely Arthur's ears."

Tyro pricks them up and wags his tail.