Arthur shoves Ariadne, dressed in nothing but a bed sheet, in a closet a second before the front door explodes off its hinges, sending splinters raining down on Arthur as bullets begin to fly. She has enough of her wits about her to stifle her scream when she sees Arthur shot, square between the eyes.
Her chest is heaving, tears running down her cheeks as she claws at the walls like a caged animal, trying to find a way out without being seen. The sheet she was wearing as a haphazard dress has pooled at her feet and when the door is jerked open, bathing her in fluorescent light, she feels more naked than she has ever felt before.
She knows, when he grins at her, that this is it, this is what Arthur was afraid of. He was not afraid of death for himself, but for her, completely innocent, wrong place, wrong time. She knows that when he looked at her, that last little stutter step was supposed to be their chance and now, it's gone. She's going, going, gone.
The man who shot Arthur grabs her and tugs her out, his face dotted with blood, Arthur's blood, and she is vomiting on his feet. He kicks his leg out, sending sick flying and grabs her by the upper arm, tearing her out of the house, past Arthur's body and she's breaking her neck, straining over her shoulder to catch one last glance, to see if maybe, by some miracle, he's still alive.
Her eyes are practically crossing as she twists in her captors grasp and a second before the car door slams, she sees him, thick, curdled blood rolling down his face, across his open eyes and it's all she can bear.
They don't make it far before that other man, the one who didn't pull the trigger, is heavy on top of her. She shoves at his hands, tries to draw her knees up and struggles for a long minute before a slap takes all the fight out of her. She stops panicking and starts praying for death, closes her eyes and begins to count her heartbeats until they slow to double digits. She closes her eyes and is back in the lobby of the hotel, standing next to Arthur again, all smiles and cheap airport perfume.
"You should have gone home."
Ariadne hears him walk up, though she doesn't turn to face him. She is already three sheets to the wind, drunk off of adrenaline and Mei Tei's, and has been making eyes at the bartender for an hour.
"What do you want, Arthur?" she slurs, propping her head up on her hand. Arthur doesn't reply, picking her up like a princess and carrying her out of the bar, uncaring that everyone is staring. She kicks her legs weakly for a minute, before allowing her head to loll back, laughing a little.
Kidnapped, she thinks, isn't so terrible, though she wasn't entirely sure why she was being carried out like a rag doll. For a second, she feels scolded like a child and begins to say something before changing her mind and snuggling into him as discretely as possible.
Arthur wears no expression on his face as they cross the lobby, exit the hotel and climb into a waiting taxi. She practically falls asleep in his lap, her head resting against his starched shoulder, her fingers picking at a loose thread.
"Hey, Arthur?" she hiccups, looking up at him. He says nothing. "Arthurrrr-"
"What?"
"How'd you know where I was?" She looks up at him, her nose brushing his chin and is suddenly very aware. His cologne smells expensive, he smells expensive and she can't hide the blush that creeps across her face. It is no accident, a stolen kiss two layers deep, that she is a little enchanted and he is more than a little blasé, because that's Arthur.
"How'd you-"
"I saw you go in," he interrupts, sliding her off his lap and onto the seat next to him.
At some point they arrive at Arthur's house and instead of carrying her, he helps her stumble into his house, dumping her unceremoniously on the couch and padding into the kitchen to find something to help her sober up.
He comes back and is met by a naked Ariadne, having clearly misinterpreted his gesture. She saunters up to him, only to be rebuffed.
"Ariadne," he scowls, leaning against the couch and crossing his legs, his body betraying him. "You're naked."
"I got hot," she mewls, taking two steps towards him, only to have him take two steps back. "What?"
"This isn't going to happen like this-"
"But it is going to happen-"
"No." Arthur's voice sounds weird to him, higher than usual and cracking a little and for a second, he considers it, before brushing the thought away. As he tosses her the sheet draped across the back of the couch, he hears voices at the door.
She is about to question when he grabs her and shoves her in the coat closet.
"Arthur, what the fu-"
He clamps his hand over her mouth and pushes her into the closet. He stares at her for a long minute, his fingertips brushing her lips as his hand drops, and takes a half step forward, his face less than an inch from hers, before shaking his head and shutting the door.
Suddenly, she is stone cold sober. A lump forms in her throat as she recognizes the fear in Arthur's eyes, a helplessness that catches her off guard. Goosebumps rise on her skin and she tries her hardest not the move. She hears his gun click, and a second later, a crash.
Ariadne doesn't open her eyes again when she feels the cool metal of the gun pressed to her temple. She takes a few deep, slow breaths, sure they're her last and after a minute, finally opens her eyes.
"You are an unlucky girl," the man growls and she can't stop the bitter laugh that escapes her throat. How wrong he was. Luck had nothing to do with it, with her circumstance. Arthur's selfless devotion to chivalry buys her precious seconds, the seconds she was using now to accept death. The last thing she thinks before the gun goes off is that she could have loved him.