She was hunched over a draft table, lines blurring in front of her in a hazy pattern even as she tried desperately to keep her focus, to keep pushing through this wall of exhaustion. Time was running short on this next mission, and her mazes had to be perfect. This particular mark'd had some training, so safe places for the team to hide was a must. The next time she lifted her head, she was too tired to be shocked that Eames was standing beside the table. From the looks of things, he'd been observing her for awhile. By now, she was well used to Eames simply appearing places like he had a pocket transporter hidden somewhere on him. She wouldn't be surprised. He was smart enough and enterprising enough (pun intended) to have worked out the technology. "Lovely evening," he observed. "Burning the midnight oil, are we?" "Is it that late?" She'd lost track of time. Again. Eames shook his head sadly, like she'd fumbled a particularly easy question. "Come on, darling, time for a bit of a breather." "I'm fine," she protested, bristling at the idea that he was checking up on her. She didn't need anyone trying to play parent. "I just..." A warm, steady hand was at her elbow, bringing her gently to her feet. "You just need some time away from your pencils and paper," he finished, in a friendly tone that held a core of steel underneath it. She wondered how many people had capitulated under the weight of that tone, and vowed she wouldn't be the latest victim. She gestured at her mock-ups and papers. "But, the mission..." "Don't worry." His teeth gleamed a terrifying white when he smiled. "We'll still be working if that appeases your Yankee guilt complex about relaxing." She jerked out of his hold, exhaustion forgotten as adrenaline took over. "I don't have a Yankee guilt complex about relaxing." "Of course you do, all Americans do." He kept walking until he was in the middle of the cavernous room, then stopped. "Here's good." "For what?" He stripped off his hideous brown corduroy jacket and flung it towards the lawn chairs. Under it, he wore only a thin wife-beater that showcased his rather ornate tattoos (she'd always meant to ask why a self-professed con man had such distinctive markings on his body) and faded, comfortable jeans. She noticed he was also barefoot. "Come now, lose the jacket and scarf," he instructed. "Oh, and the shoes." "Is this your odd attempt at seduction?" She tried to make a joke of it, hoping he would miss the slight tremor that went through her at his words. "Not at all, love." He gave her a look that told her better than words that he'd not only noticed, but had probably phrased the remark like that on purpose just to get that response. "If I wanted you on your back moaning my name, I certainly wouldn't do it here. No romance at all in this place," he added, with a sweeping gesture of the room. "Uh huh." Eames arched a perfectly aristocratic eyebrow. "Are you saying you don't deserve romance?" She narrowed her eyes. "That's totally a trick question." "So it is." He didn't look at all put out about her calling him out on it, either. "In any event, this is, sadly for both of us, strictly business. Lose the extra clothes." Cursing herself for her curiosity, Ariadne did as instructed, leaving her clad in only her stretch pants and comfortable t-shirt. "Okay, what are we doing?" "Teaching you the fine art of self-defense." "What? Why?" "Because, even in a dream, you need to know how to defend yourself against an attack," he explained with an exaggerated slowness that alternately pissed her off and shamed her for her lack of knowledge. "And if you keep insisting on coming along for our little adventures, we can't have you being a liability. Even Yusuf's had training." "Way to make me feel inadequate," she replied, cursing herself for the peevish, pouting tone. She knew better than to rise to his bait. "No no, you misunderstand. This is just as much for our benefit as yours," he corrected, adopting a conciliatory tone that she knew had to be fake. She doubted he know the meaning of the word. "But since you're new at this, we'll start with basic hand to hand, and move to weapons training at a later date." "This can't have been your idea." One thing she was sure of was that Eames never did anything unless there was something in it for him. "It was Arthur's," Eames conceded, with a nonchalant shrug. "And, as it happens, I agree with him. He does have the occasional flash of brilliance." "One day, I'm going to get the story of why you two don't get along," Ariadne promised. She'd been dying to ask for months. Eames made a tsking noise. "Nonsense, who says we don't get along. I have nothing but the upmost respect for Arthur. We're just...competitive." "Is that what we're calling it?" "My, you do have a wicked imagination, I definitely approve." Once again, he smiled that slightly terrifying smile. "And as much as I would love to debate the comparative aesthetics of mine and Arthur's work ethics and the competitive psychology inherent when any two men work together, we do have more important things to do." He beckoned her close, all business now, the muscles in his arm flexing with the movement. "Try to take me down." "That sounds so dirty coming from you," she muttered, proud of herself for not flushing at the blatant innuendo. She could do this. She'd taken a self-defense class back in the States when she was at Cornell. She knew what to do. And she was used to acing tests, even if they were pop quizzes. She came at him, trying to use her small size as an advantage, and had just managed to get hold of his wrist before he twisted, planted, and tossed her onto her back in one smooth, graceful move. She landed on the hard wood floor with a wheezing thud, already feeling the beginning of bruises starting to form on her back and thighs. His face hovered over hers, his expression enigmatic, as he held out a hand. "Not bad. Now get up and come at me again. This time, I want some effort into it." She accepted the hand up and got to her feet gingerly, wincing at the twinge in her back. She should have stretched out, she idly thought to herself, but she wasn't about to cry mercy this early in the game. If he could do this cold, then so could she. "I thought you were supposed to be teaching me, not trying to make me humiliate myself." "And I will, just as soon as I figure out what you've learned so you can unlearn. Come on." She attacked again, this time from the left, and almost swept him off his feet with a leg kick before he danced nimbly out of the way on the balls of his feet. He moved like a boxer. Or a dancer, she couldn't decide. Either way, it was annoying (and also impressive, but she squashed that thought immediately. She wouldn't be surprised if Eames was a mind reader as well.) "Better," he commented, drawing the word out. "But you're telegraphing your moves so hard you might as well be shouting them." She brushed an impatient hand through her tangled hair and gave him her very best glare. "I hate you so much right now." "And the foreplay begins," he grinned, looking delighted with her response, then gestured her forward with a crook of his fingers. She'd never really thought about how solidly he was built, but now she couldn't help her gaze from raking over him. Just to look for weaknesses, she told herself. "Once more, then we can start undoing all of your nasty bad habits and replacing them with even nastier good ones." She dug her nails into her palm to keep herself from launching at him. Patience. "I am totally going to kick your ass." "That's the spirit. And I do so look forward to being pinned down by you," he winked, and she was absolutely positive that he was completely toying with her to get her to react in a certain way, but she didn't mind. She was going to ace this, and then wipe the floor with him. And maybe, just maybe, wipe that infernal smirk off his face.
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