The trip across the border is almost anti-climactic. At the crossing point, the Finnish guards examine the passports, examine their faces and wave them on with disinterested nods. Koskinen and his partner, Laako herd them along, and before anyone makes a fuss about Tyro, there's a quick consultation, and the dog now has a permit as well.

Arthur is dazed. There's a van in the parking lot; there are other people and he feels acutely self-conscious in his grimy clothing. Ariadne huddles near him, and Eames is flanking her, looking around warily.

"Where are we going, loves?" Eames asks, and Arthur looks at Koskinen.

"Private suite at the Kamp," the man replies. "Your Mr. Charles is willing to foot quite a bill. It will be about three hours or so to get there, so you may want to rest."

Arthur shoots a glance at Eames and without speaking a word, they're in agreement; Ariadne can sleep, they'll keep watch.

Koskinen's estimate is good, and the long drive goes on and on. Arthur finds himself drowsing at times, unable to take in the passing endless scenery as it rolls by the windows, taking the daylight with it. Neither he nor Eames talk much to their rescuers, and although that probably seems rude, neither Koskinen nor Doctor Laako seem to mind. They hand over a pair of cell phones, and Arthur takes the time to reactivate his former life in a matter of three calls.

That alternately exhilarates and depresses him.

Still, there will be money available when they get to the hotel, and that will mean a shopping trip. Arthur is looking forward to that, and casts a speculative eye towards the other two, wondering if they're willing to let him drag them along. Arthur suspects Ariadne won't object too much, and Eames would agree just to pick the most obnoxious items possible and make him wince.

Arthur finds himself smiling at that thought. He looks out at the cars passing on the snowy lanes, and concentrates on staying awake. Eames is making little worried sounds and when Arthur glances over for assurance, the Englishman sighs.

"Not getting through to certain people who should be picking up. I'll know more when I get my hands on a laptop."

Arthur nods, and starts to reach over to cup the back of Eames' neck, but he's acutely aware of the two strangers in the front seats of the van, so he lets his hand drop. Eames catches the aborted action and his mouth tightens, but he says nothing, and the two of them look at each other uneasily.

The suite is elegant, in a slightly stodgy way. The Kamp is one of the older hotels, and the décor reflects that, with polished wood fixtures and cream beige carpeting. Ariadne sets Tyro down and seems dazed until she reaches the doorway of the huge bathroom.

Arthur suspects she won't be coming out of the tub for hours, not that he blames her. Eames wanders in and drops himself heavily on one of the sofas in the living room, seemingly ready to take a nap. Koskinen hands over a computer case to Arthur.

"Free Wi-fi of course, and a corporate American Express for your immediate needs. Mr. Charles' flight is coming in around six AM and we'll be in the suite across the hall," he tells Arthur quietly. "Is there anything you need for the moment?"

"Does this place have . . . a tailor?" Arthur finds himself asking, and it seems to amuse the two rescuers.

The Kamp most certainly does, and within the hour, Arthur has had his man in Paris emailing his measurements and preferences to the shop downstairs, as well as sending an overnight express package of in-shop wear for him.

Without telling Eames, Arthur orders up some casual wear for him as well, making a fairly good estimate of the sizes needed, and when asked about the colors, stresses in all caps that they should be solid, neutral colors ONLY.

When Arthur looks up, Eames is starting to pace in the suite.

"Done with it, pet? Not that I'm rushing you, but . . ." Eames murmurs in a preoccupied tone. Arthur signs off and gets up from the desk. Eames comes over, and for a moment they're just at the edges of their old, early definition of personal space.

And because Arthur still feels the sting of that awkwardness from in the van, he doesn't move away.

Eames sighs gratefully, and lightly slips an arm around him in a half-hug. "S'all right. We're alone now," he murmurs.

Arthur says nothing, but leans into Eames and relaxes.

000ooo000ooo000

The sweet bliss of hot water transcends time, and Ariadne is lost in the decadent pleasure of scrubbing up. So far she's emptied the tub once and refilled it, and is now on the verge of total prunification, but oh it's so, so good.

Reluctantly though, Ariadne realizes she must get out, and does, pulling one of the thick and beautiful bath sheets around herself. The softness of the plush damned near makes her weep. She takes a peek at her reflection in the mirror, and gives herself a little nod, pleased that she's starting to look . . . normal.

It takes a while to comb through her hair, but the conditioner helps, and Ariadne is startled at how long it is. She wrings the last of the water out and slips on one of the hotel bathrobes. It drags on the floor a little as she steps out and into the living room area.

Arthur rises up and gives her a smile. "I hope you left some hot water for the rest of us."

"No promises," Ariadne mumbles, feeling a little guilty. He laughs and kisses her gently before slipping past her and into the bathroom. She wanders over to Eames and kisses the back of his head. "Doing okay?"

"Trying to," he mutters to her gently. "Looks like things have gotten busy while we've been gone. Look—six other Extractors have been reported as disappeared, although that could be of their own choosing in a few cases. I'm more worried about not being able to reach family."

Ariadne reaches to rub his shoulders; they're tight and hard, and she's not sure if she can squeeze firmly enough to get him to relax.

"You'll reach them," she whispers, "I know you will."

Eames gives her a little grunt of thanks, and sighs as Ariadne works her fingers along his tense muscles. He closes the laptop and sits there, savoring her touch for a while. Tyro shifts under the desk.

Ariadne hears humming coming from the bathroom, and realizes that Arthur is done with his shower. She stops rubbing Eames' shoulders and gives him a kiss to the back of his shaggy head, then moves to knock on the bathroom door. Arthur calls that it's open, and when she pushes the door, lovely clouds of steam billow out.

Arthur is shaving. The sight of his half fuzzy, half clean face is startling, particularly when he grins. Ariadne laughs, and slips inside, giving him a thoughtful look. "It was really bugging you, wasn't it?"

"I can't even begin to tell you how much," Arthur agrees. "Some faces are meant to be fuzzy; mine is not one of them."

"If it makes you feel better," Ariadne sighs, "although it's going to take some time to get used to you as a smoothie again."

She blushes when Arthur leans forward and whispers, "I'll make it worth your while, believe me."

"Oh really?" Ariadne asks, feeling a sweet little charge of joy. "I'll just have to hold you TO that, then."

"Count on it," Arthur assures her, and turns back to the mirror, busily drawing the razor across his chin again. She watches him shave for a bit, fascinated to see the process, and amused at how it so clearly gives him pleasure to be tidy again. When Arthur is done, he wipes his face with a damp towel and makes faces at himself, stretching and examining himself from every angle to find spots missed. Ariadne snickers at his expressions.

"I hope you'll hold off on giving yourself a haircut too," she murmurs, slipping her arms around him from behind. "I love your curls."

"No curls," Arthur grumbles, but lightly. "It's not professional."

"Awww," Ariadne pouts, and runs her fingers along his scalp, fluffing his hair even as she massages Arthur's head. "But you're so cute this way!"

"If you like my curls, I'll let you choose any you want off the barbershop floor," Arthur promises her.

She laughs, and tugs on his hair before releasing him.

"Room service—what do you want for dinner?" Ariadne asks, amused at how Arthur's interest perks up.

They discuss their choices as they step out of the bathroom. Eames looks at them and smiles crookedly. "I hope I'm allowed a suggestion or two—and no my darlings, fish will NOT be on the menu tonight."

000ooo000ooo000

By the time Eames is out of the bathroom, the meal has arrived, and the three of them indulge themselves with genuine pleasure, taking apart two good T-bone steaks along with baked potatoes and for dessert, chocolate ice cream.

Naturally Arthur insists on some cautions, pointing out that they shouldn't overload their systems, and Eames teases him about it. They share the ice cream and gradually, after brushing their teeth in an amused lineup at the bathroom sink, they gravitate to the bed, feeling full, warm, happy and hopeful.

Eames manages the middle spot, and pulls the other two into him, comforted by the skin-to-skin contact, feeling warm and comfortable and slightly needy. It's wonderful to be back in civilization, yes, but better than that, it's humblingly glorious to know that this relationship is still here, still solid.

In fact, he's feeling increasingly solid now, and when a hand curls around his shaft, Eames gives a happy groan. He kisses first one then the other, savoring the sweetness of each lover. Ariadne wraps herself around one of his thighs, fingers tweaking his nipples as she licks along his throat.

Arthur is pressing up against his other hip, fingers sliding along Eames' erection, teasing it firmly. Eames shudders a little, caught between Ariadne's sharp little nips and Arthur's calloused caresses. It's sweet, being the object of their desires, and he lets them play with him with ever-increasing passion, feeling like the luckiest man in the world for the moment.

Under the bed, Tyro gives a snort and the sound makes all three of them pause for a moment and laugh.

"Someone's feeling left out," Ariadne murmurs, shifting away.

"No bestiality," Arthur shoots back, nuzzling Eames' neck. "I love the dog, but I don't intend to love the dog."

This makes Eames laugh, and he rolls over, pinning Arthur down. "No, I can understand that, darling, but for the moment, we have so many nicer things to think of . . ."

It thrills him that Arthur doesn't flinch, doesn't tense up. Eames stretches out on him, pinning their cocks between their bodies; the heat and pressure made both of them groan. He turns his head and Ariadne is there, kissing him with her little cat ferocity, her grin against his mouth. "Rub-a-dub," she laughs, and shifts to kiss Arthur in turn.

There's enough slickness to their pre-cum to make the rubbing work, and work well; Eames braces his arms on either side of Arthur's wide shoulders and rocks against him. Arthur reaches down and lets his hands encircle their swollen pricks, adding firm slow counter-strokes to the thrusting as Ariadne nestles close and kisses both their bodies.

Sweet madness in the dark, Eames thinks, and it's his last coherent thought before he lets go of rationality. In their bed, in the warmth here there are hands and mouths and sighs and sweet filthy words that encircle all three of them as they give in to each other.

He loses track for a while. First Arthur, then Ariadne, then both of them in a long session of layered orality that has everyone's mouth busy. Eames knows his lovers, knows their bodies and savors bringing pleasure to them. He loves to bring Arthur to the edge of orgasm, watch his eyes close tightly and hear the man's breathing go deep and ragged. Eames loves to see Ariadne rock her head from side to side, and watch her chest flush with the dull rose of deep arousal.

How he loves them.

When they're asleep, lost in the deep exhaustion of post-coital bliss, Eames waits until he hears slow even breathing on either side of him. He shifts, and climbs over Ariadne, slipping off the bed and waiting to make sure they're both still asleep.

A snuffling at his bare feet makes Eames look down, and in the dark, Tyro is only a shadowy ball of fluff. Eames bends and pets the pup, his big hand stroking along the soft fur. "Shhhhhh," he whispers, and pads out of the bedroom to the living room. He flips open the laptop and signs on.

Twenty minutes later, dressed and silent, Eames slips out of the front doors of the hotel to the waiting taxi. He grunts out the destination to the driver and slumps down into the seat, rubbing his eyes. Dawn is on the horizon, and the streets of Helsinki are already full of traffic, but Eames doesn't see any of it, and his thoughts are thousands of miles away in London.