Fic: How to get married in five easy steps 2/2
Title: How to get married in 5 easy steps 2/2
pairing: Arthur/Eames
rating: PG-13
disclaimer: I own nothing, I'm just playing with them.
Warnings: Fluff, angst (mostly fluff really - teeth rotting levels of fluff)
Summary: Who would have thought getting married would be quite so complex a task?
Word count: 8,400 (why can't I write short fics anymore?)
Author's note: Next and final part of this one, my last stab at fluff before I'm firmly back with the angst for the final part of The Man Who Trilogy. This sits firmly in The Man Who... universe, set about a year after None of the Luck. It can be read in isolation but the most will be gained if Only Dreams and None of the Luck have been read previously.
Thank you to my beta sweetsigh, your feedback ended up making me write what I actually consider to be my favourite (ok, second favourite) line of the fic.
Step 2 - Break the news (part 2 - friends)
“Eames and I are getting married.” Arthur said in the same tone as if he had just been talking about level design and escape routes they were currently working on. Even so, the effect was impressive as every face around him turned towards him in synchronisation, from the projections suited out in their Sunday best, to the choir boys in their robes, to even the priest at the alter.
“You're what?” Cobb choked, incredulous. Maybe, just maybe, Arthur reflected, it hadn't been the best idea to break the news whilst they were in the middle of a practice-run, especially not one in Cobb's Mal-free but still far from stable subconscious. The rest of the team had, thankfully, by this point already exited the dream.
“I said, we're getting married,” the answer wasn't making things any better.
In fact, the error of timing was particularly evident when the projections stopped just looking and starting moving towards them -well, him - with a clear intent and purpose. Of course, that could have also had something to do with the complex paradox trap he'd just created out of the Cathedral's central tower. Glancing warily at the incoming projections, he considered this to be an appropriate time to try it out.
Cobb, however, wasn't moving, just squinting at him at him in confused disbelief as if he couldn't quite process the pointman's words, “Why are you telling me this now?”
Arthur glanced around at the wedding decorations that festooned every available surface, a testament to a mark engaged to be married and a fiancée whose father had a suspicion that the match was more to do with the money she was in line to inherit than with any feelings of love or affection. He raised an eyebrow dryly, “It seemed appropriate for some reason, can’t think why.”
He glanced around at the increasingly hostile projections around them. He fingered his gun in anticipation. This was not particularly the place he wanted to discuss this, conveniently ignoring the voice in his head reminding him that he was the one who brought the topic up.
“You're seriously telling me you and Eames are getting married?” Cobb repeated in disbelief once they'd both woken up feeling only slightly worse for wear.
“You’re getting married?” The excited exclamation from Ariadne carried across the room, drowning out any response Arthur was going to make.
He barely had time to blink when the petite architect had come bounding up to him upon hearing the news. “Congratulations, can I see the rings?” she all but squealed, dragging Arthur into a large hug, before moving over to do the same to Eames.
Yusuf had a small knowing smile on his face, as he too offered his well-wishes “Yes, congratulations, you're a braver man than I, Arthur.” He didn't sound particularly surprised by the news.
“You knew!” Aridane pointed a finger at him accusingly.
“Of course I knew, Eames told me last week.” The chemist sounded completely and utterly unapologetic, because of course Eames would had gotten round to telling Yusuf already.
“Why did he get to know first?” Ariadne gave Eames an incriminatory glare.
Eames, because he was a smug bastard, looked completely unfazed, merely grinning and deftly off-loaded the blame onto the man he allegedly loved. “We split up the job of breaking the news to everyone: I got Yusuf, he got you and Cobb. Unfortunately, it seems that Arthur darling was remiss in completing his homework promptly.”
Arthur was becoming less and less convinced of his affections by the second; the fact that the accusation was true was beside the point. “Just because we're engaged, doesn't mean I can't kill you.” He gave Eames his best, I will make you beg for death glare.
The forger just continued to grin, seemingly completely oblivious to the threat. Eames never had been particularly concerned when Arthur made threats against life and limb, a fact that probably held some sort of deeper meaning if he could be bothered to look for it, “Ah, but then who would you marry?”
Arthur raised an eyebrow at him, “I'm sure I'd fine a suitable replacement.”
“I thought you said I was irreplaceable?”
“No I said you were irredeemable, there's a difference.”
“Are you sure you two aren't already married?” Ariadne was looking at them with an amused smile, then quickly shifted subject “So go on, tell me all the details? Have you set a date yet? Who proposed to who? Tell me everything.”
As Ariadne bombarded them with questions, which Eames was more than happy to answer in a somewhat exaggerated, if not entirely fabricated fashion, the gossip that he was, Arthur couldn't help but notice that Cobb had surreptitiously taken the distraction to slip out the side door of the old office block they were using as their base.
++++
“You know, I hear the usual reaction when hearing your best friend has gotten engaged is to say congratulations.” Arthur confronted him once he found him, trying to gain some measure of control over the anger which had been simmering through him ever since he'd noticed the extractor was gone before he did something that Cobb would regret.
“Arthur.” Cobb started, clearly not having heard him approach, “No, no, I'm very happy for you. It's just a bit sudden, that's all.” He somehow managed to look guilty, concerned, and nervous all at once, although the latter may have been because he recognised the expression on Arthur's face.
“We've been dating five and half years, if that's your idea of sudden, I'd hate to know what you think of consists of a long engagement.” Arthur almost spat the words out, because Cobb had married Mal after knowing her for just over a year, so it was frankly hypocritical if he thought Arthur was moving too fast.
“It never seemed that serious,” Cobb responded awkwardly. He cleared his throat uncertainly and squinted at Arthur in a manner that was no doubt meant to be some sort of fatherly concern but really case off to the pointman as being patronising, “Are you sure its not because of, well, you know.”
“What? No, fuck you, Cobb. Why does everything have to come back to that? I'm over it, it's in the past. Why the fuck can't you just be happy for me?” Arthur couldn't help the venom in his voice at that, because if there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was being treated like some sort of fragile thing who somehow couldn't make his own choices without there needing to be some deep rooted psychological cause. It was the cause of no few arguments with Eames as it was; the last thing he needed was for Cobb to start harping on about it too.
“Shit, I'm sorry, Arthur, I didn't mean it like that, I am happy for you, truly,” he laughed depreciatingly before continuing, “It's just, you know, it's Eames - the man I remember you telling me couldn't commit to a one night stand, let alone anything else.”
Arthur tried to stay angry, to somehow defend his and Eames' position, honour, whatever, but the absurdity of the situation, combined with Cobb's earnest, concerned expression overtook him, melting the anger away. He could feel amusement tugging at his lips and he responded with no small amount of humour, “Yeah, it came as a shock to him too.”
Cobb laughed at that, an honest, amused sound that was heard more and more recently but never failed to amaze Arthur given how he was but a few short years ago. The sound was infectious and it didn't take long before he was joining in.
“So really, five years?” Cobb asked finally once he'd gotten his breath back. He paused briefly, clearly doing the mental calculations in his head, “You never said. I always figured you got together after the Fischer job.”
Arthur shrugged, “You had other things on your mind at the time and, well, we weren't exactly couple of the year at that point either.” Which was, he reflected, probably an understatement.
Cobb laughed as he realised the implications, “Jeez, no wonder you didn't want me calling him in.”
“It worked out pretty well in the end,” Arthur could feel what was no doubt an immensely sappy smile tugging at the edge of his lips at the recollection and tried desperately to school his features into something more dignified. He had a suspicion he wasn't doing a very good job.
“Congratulations. I mean it, I'm happy for you.”
“Good, because, I want you to be my best man.” Nervousness was rarely an issue for Arthur when asking for things. He generally knew what he wanted and went, except, well except when it came to asking personal favours, things he often felt he had no right to ask. So he busied himself with lighting up a cigarette, eyes fixed on its glowing tip, so he wouldn't have to look at Cobb as he waited for his response.
He needn't have worried, “Arthur, I'd love to be your best man. After all, it seems only fair I return the favour.”
++++
Step 3 - Planning the wedding
Planning a wedding, even a small, straightforward, civil partnership ceremony, was far more complex than Arthur had originally given credit. Somehow, he felt, organising the thing shouldn't be even close to as difficult as, say, organising an illegal extraction. Yet Arthur was beginning to think that taking on the most complex, intricate, and dangerous mind-heist, or for that matter Inception, was infinitely preferable to having to talk to another person about the invitations, or catering, or any of the hundred and one things that a modern wedding seemed to entail.
Of course the fact that they, and by ‘they’ Arthur meant mostly himself since Eames seemed content to leave everything to the last minute and then offer unhelpful advice when things inevitably went wrong, were doing so whilst also being internationally wanted mind criminals hardly helped matters.
For a start it ensured that things like this happened, Arthur contemplated wearily as he heard his phone, his personal phone, go off yet again whilst in the middle of a planning meeting.
Offering a tight apologetic smile to their current extractor and a glare towards Eames who was, almost by his mere presence, distinctly not helping, he answered it, already dreading the fact it was no doubt going to be some company attempting to sell him the perfect something to ensure his dream wedding came true.
“Hello, Mr. Miller? This is Sandra calling from Hanley florists,” the far too chipper voice greeting him on the other end. He silently swore to himself that once this was over, he was burning this phone, cursing the fact that he couldn't get away with the only place his full real name appearing in conjunction with the event being the marriage certificate.
“Yes?” he responded sharply, hoping whoever was on the other end would get the hint and keep the conversation short. No such luck.
“I'm sorry for calling you like this, I just wanted to confirm that your order for your wedding on the 25th of July. I notice from our records you are not ordering a bouquet with the rest of the flowers?”
“No, we're not, and nor do we intend to,” Arthur ground out with no small measure of irritation.
“Are you sure, sir?” The voice continued, oblivious on the other end, “It's just there is a discount when ordered with the rest of the wedding flowers and most brides find the bouquet to be an integral part of the wedding, I'm certain your fiancée would not wish to miss out on having the best possible.”
Why, Arthur wondered silently, could these people not take a simple 'no' at face value. Taking a deep breath, he tried to remain calm as he explained, “Well since there is not going to be a bride at this wedding I hardly see that being a problem.”
There was a pause on the other end, clearly as Sandra adjusted her preconceptions of what, exactly, this particular marriage entailed. Arthur had to give it to her, it didn't take her long to recover, “Very well, sir. I also understand you have only ordered enough flowers to decorate the reception hall. Are you certain you don't wish to order any for the ceremony itself?”
“No, no I do not.” Arthur was starting to loose the fight to keep his patience. Unfortunately, he suspected that turning his I am going to cause you grievous bodily harm if you don't do exactly as I say voice on a flowergirl was hardly the way to ensure the flowers they did want turned up in their appropriate arrangements, no matter how satisfying it would be. “The ceremony is going to be taking place in a garden, aptly called, I am told, The Rose Garden. As it already has flowers in it, it doesn't need any more.”
Despite what he thought was almost admirable levels of restraint, the girl on the other end sniffed and reprimanded him snottily, “There's no need to be rude, sir, I was only asking.”
“Right, right, I'm sorry. Is there anything else?” Please god don't let there be anything else
“No, that's everything. The flowers will be delivered the day before as arranged. Good day sir, I hope you enjoy your wedding.” She rang off and Arthur closed his phone with a frustrated sigh.
He turned back towards the other end of the office where the planning meeting was currently taking place, noticing as he did so that the remaining members of his team were looking at him with curious, and somewhat bemused expressions. Well, three of them looked bemused, the final one was expertly sitting in between amused and smug, with possibly a hint of a teasing grin at the edges.
“Not a word,” he growled out before any of them could open their mouths. Three jaws slammed shut with a satisfying alacrity, his reputation enough for none of them to be willing to try their luck when he was in this sort of mood.
Unfortunately, it didn't seem to work on everyone, “Problem with the flowers was that, Arthur?”
“Shut up, this is all your mother's fault.” Because she was the one insisting that they needed at least some flowers to decorate the Grand Hall for the reception. Up until that point, he'd been more than happy to forgo the idea of flowers all-together, although he would admit that she possibly did have a point, from a purely stylistic point of view, it really didn't seem worth the hassle.
Eames continued to look unrepentantly smug, and Arthur could almost predict, word for word, what would be next, “Well I told you not to let her get involved in the planning.”
He had, too, repeatedly, but she had been really quite adamant with regards to the fact that the Historic Gardens (her capitalisation) at the Eames family home was a licensed wedding venue, and if random strangers can get wedded on the grounds our ancestors so lovingly created, surely it wasn't too much to ask that her son could do the same. The Dowager Lady Lexinton was a formidable woman when she wanted to, and it was quite clear where Eames had inherited his ability to completely ignore any possible counter-arguments as if they were utterly irrelevant.
On a more practical note, holding the wedding in the gardens certainly did have a security appeal, since it would be considerably more discrete, easier to control access to only invited guests and, with use of the Grand Hall for the reception, ensure that everything took place in a single location. The downside however was that Eames' mother was, as such, inevitably and intimately involved in the preparations.
Before, however, Arthur could come up with a suitably scathing reply that the forger's smug I told you so certainly deserved, their extractor, a young Belgian con artist turned mind criminal called Yves, cleared his throat, “If you two 'lovebirds' have quite finished, I believe we still have a job to plan?”
“Lovebirds?” They both turned on the poor boy simultaneously, Arthur an imperiously raised eyebrow indicating his displeasure, Eames a viciously shark-like grin. It was, Arthur would admit to himself, possibly somewhat cruel thing to do, but it had the desired effect as Yves paled and started backing away from them.
“Ah, bon, I mean to say, carry on, s'il vous plait.” The babble coming out of his mouth was probably more a testament to the short period of time he'd been in the dreamsharing business than anything else but Arthur couldn't help but find the effect gratifying, not to mention satisfying that here, at least, there was still someone he could intimidate when he wanted to.
++++
In fairness to Eames' mother, she did not, in fact, attempt to take over the organisation entirely, rather containing herself to offering appropriate tid-bits of advice born from having had a son, various siblings and at least one niece of her own having gone through the process previously.
The only area she did ensure she had considerable influence over was the catering, and since it was her kitchen the caterers were going to be using, that was probably fair. It also meant that it was one less problem for Arthur to deal with, which given that they'd been engaged in one particularly complex job after another for the past six months, was probably a good thing.
In fact, the only sticking point was the guest list.
Eames' mother, naturally, felt that pretty much anyone with Eames as a surname should be there to celebrate the event in proper, time-honoured manner. This was, of course, something both Arthur and Eames fundamentally disagreed with, not least because the forger considered most of his non-immediate family to be insane at best and in a few cases barely even human.
Thankfully, this was an argument that Arthur was happy to have absolutely no part of, his own invitations having been prepared, written and sent for weeks now (and indeed, all accepted with one notable exception), a mercifully short list consisting of Cobb (plus children), Miles, Ariadne (plus one if she wanted), Yusuf (though he was already invited as Eames' best man), Paulos and Warren, old army buddies who'd gone into business together on the shadier side of 'private security' and had remained good friends and useful contacts ever since, and Johan, a chemist he'd known for close to a decade now.
And his brother. Because even if they never got on, he couldn't help but feel that it was important to have at least one family member present. Maybe after all these years, without the spectre of their father coming between them they might even be able to make amends.
Looking back on it, the list was almost pitifully short, a testament to a life spent in an occupation hardly given to making lasting friendships, a factor not entirely helped by his own purposeful skill in dropping off the radar and breaking all contact when the situation required it. In fact there was a good chance the list would have been even shorter if Ariadne, in her sweet innocence when it came to illegal endeavours, hadn't insisted in all of 'Team Inception', as she liked to name them, to keep in contact over the years.
Still, at least it meant he didn't have to field phone-calls like the one Eames was currently engaged in with the indomitable Lucy Eames.
“Mother, I don't care if she's my cousin, Margery is twice my age, certifiably insane and I haven't seen her since I was twelve. She's not being invited.” Eames gave Arthur an apologetic smile and rolled his eyes as he stretched out on the threadbare sofa, clearly settling in for the long-haul.
They had been working late in the old art studio their current team was renting for the job, going through research and files on the mark, attempting to identify an angle, a weak-spot they could exploit. Of course this task wasn't helped at the time by the fact that the mark had also recently gotten engaged, and the various wedding related invoices and wire-tapped conversations about invitations, venues, DJs and caterers inevitably led the discussion more towards matrimonial practicalities than exploitable weaknesses.
Arthur had been close to calling it a night, with a silent eulogy to their clearly dead and buried sense of professionalism, when the phone had rang offering up a merciful distraction. Not to mention, of course, a convenient excuse to avoid having to admit defeat.
“No, we're not inviting Uncle Roger either because he's a homophobic old git who'd frown throughout the ceremony and then, once he'd gotten over the fact that I was marrying a man, would go on to complain about the fact that Arthur was still American.” He paused, moving the phone slightly away from his ear as he did so to avoid being deafened by whatever his mother was saying, before bringing it back to continue his argument.
Arthur tuned most of it out, instead eyed Eames’ sock-clad feet stretching out over the arm of the chair. The temptation was far to great to resist, and he casually ran his finger along the insole of the forger's foot, just as he was in the middle of explaining to his mother that the carefully pruned list of relatives that were being invited had been chosen so as to maximally reduce the amount of inevitable bloodshed which happened at these sorts of family functions.
Arthur smirked as Eames yelped at the contact, drawing his legs up to his chest in an attempt to remove them from the vicinity of the pointman's roving hands.
“That, darling, was just cruel. No, not you, Mother, Arthur just brushed my feet. Yes, I'm pretty sure he is well aware of how ticklish I am there.” Eames gave Arthur a look that was somewhere in between a glare and a pout, which the pointman ignored in favour of stealing the section of sofa that the forger's legs had recently vacated.
It only took a few minutes for the Brit's legs to make their way back over Arthur's side of the sofa, which was really just asking for trouble. Not, of course, that Arthur would do the same trick twice, oh no, Eames would be far to prepared for that. Rather he let his hands casually wander up the forger's thighs, lightly at first then with growing pressure.
“Yes, I have sent an invitation to Aunt Eileen and Uncle Tom. Ah” Eames' breath eventually lost his composure when Arthur hand reached his belt-line, an almost involuntary sigh emerging from the forger’s lips, “No, mother, I'm fine, just moved wrong.”
He tried to give Arthur a small kick with his legs to get him to cease and desist, which the pointman caught easily. Turn-about was, after all, fair play and the last time Eames had pulled this stunt on him, he'd been on the phone to a rather unforgiving client, so he had absolutely no sympathy for the other man's distress.
He did stop however when he felt the forger go tense, his expression moving quickly from the mock-glare he'd otherwise been sporting to a carefully neutral calm. “I don't think that would be a good idea.”
Eames listened seriously for a moment, “No, no, I'll ask him but it's complicated. Look, I'll call you back. No, really I will. Yes, love you too.” The whole exchanged piqued Arthur's interest, and not in a good way.
“What will you have to ask me then?” Arthur enquired sharply once he'd rung off.
“Seating arrangements,” Eames informed him airily, regaining his casual composure, although Arthur was pretty certain it was an act, “Mother's all in a flap about who to put where and what to do with two best men and no father of the bride. I told her you'd sort it all out.” The forger gave him a beatific smile, a clear taunt designed to keep Arthur focused on the fact he'd been saddled with yet another thing to arrange.
Arthur wasn't in the mood to be played with, however. It was far too late to deal with one of Eames' games, “Like hell it was,” he snapped out angrily, “Cut the crap, Eames. What did she want?”
Sensing that Arthur wasn't going to drop it, the forger instead changed tacts, swinging his legs round to sit up properly and enquiring sharply, “Who's Joseph Miller? I was pretty certain we weren't speaking to any of your family, or did that happen to slip your mind.”
Arthur could feel his jaw clench almost involuntarily, anger starting to built within him, because what the fuck?.“I didn't realise I needed your permission.”
“Forgive me for wanting to know who's turning up to my own wedding.” Eames snapped back, sarcasm dripping off every word.
“That's rich coming from you, with your Aunt Eileens and Uncle Rogers.”
“It's Uncle Tom, Aunt Eileen and Uncle Tom.”
“Whatever.” he dismissed Eames' reply because he was being pedantic and that was Arthur's job. “The point is it seems like you're going to have half a dozen family members there I've never met or particularly want to. But I invite one single person from mine and suddenly it’s a big deal?”
“Yes but my family never le...” Eames brain seemed to catch up with his mouth suddenly and he slammed his jaw shut mid-sentence. “You know what, forget it. You can invite whoever you want darling, you're right, it's no business of mine.”
“No, I want to hear what you have to say. Your family never what, Eames? Go on, say it.”
Eames sighed, running his hand over his face. He looked pained, tired, as if the argument had taken all the fight out of him, “My family never left me with scars all over my body. Fuck, Arthur, I'm just worried about you, that's all, I don't want you to feel you have to have family there just because Mother's insisting I invite along half the Eames clan.”
Oh.
“He's my brother,” Arthur offered eventually after an awkward pause, “And it’s irrelevant, because he's not coming.” He finished this last one bitterly, thinking of the less than complementary reply he'd received.
“Oh love,” Eames whispered, looking at him with wide, sympathetic eyes, which somehow made things worse than if he'd said nothing at all, because Arthur hated being reminded of weakness.
“Don't, I don't need this pitying bullshit from you, too. I extended the olive branch, if the asshole doesn't want to take it, that's his problem.” He knew he was being unfair by taking this out on Eames; it wasn't the forger's fault that his brother was a dick.
Sensing his mood, one of the advantages Arthur supposed of dating a man who manipulated people's emotions for a living, Eames changed tact asking instead, “Are you sure you're actually related to him? Because clearly the man's an idiot, it's the only explanation. We'll just have to work on making our own family for you instead.”
“Please tell me that wasn't a suggestion we should think about having kids.” And wasn't that a terrifying idea, because Arthur had no desire whatsoever to become a father, any small measure of paternalistic instinct he may have had being more than assuaged by playing 'Uncle' and Godfather to Phillipa and James.
Thankfully, if the almost comically horrified expression on Eames' face was any indication, the forger was of the same view, “Christ no, don't say things like that to me love, I don't think my heart can take the shock.” He shifted, and a rare uncertain expression appeared on his face. “Unless of course, you want...”
“No, no, God no.” Arthur quickly replied, “Can you imagine kids with our lifestyle? We can hardly manage to take care of the cat as it is. I'm pretty certain I saw her scoping out which of the neighbours had the most advantageous alternative residence last week.”
++++
Step 4 - Stag Night
“Come on love, it's traditional.” Eames was standing under the glowing neon sign, a misty drizzle causing the lights to flicker and dance behind him in an even more grotesque fashion than their designers had clearly intended them too.
Arthur remained sceptical, “I'm sure it's not traditional to drag your partner along too.” Not of course, in his opinion that anything being 'traditional' was really a valid argument, no matter what Eames said.
Unfortunately his so-called friends didn't seem to be helping matters at all. “I dunno, I'm with Eames on this one, you can't have a stag party without strippers,” Ariadne, the traitor, offered with a grin.
“You're just saying that because you want to watch the show yourself.” Arthur dismissed the petite architect and her surprisingly dirty mind and looked around the collection of straight, red-blooded males- well, Cobb and Yusuf - and upstanding members of the British aristocracy - Emily Eames - secure in the knowledge that surely they couldn't actually want to go to a Chatham-dales ('The Chippendales from Chatham!' the sub-heading advertised) show.
Of course what he hadn't necessarily considered was the impact of several pints of British beer, a not inconsiderable amount of vodka chasers and his distinctly-no-longer-friend's desire to revel in his discomfort.
“Will there be alcohol there?” Yusuf asked with a only a slight slur in his voice, which was surprising considering how many he'd had already, “Then I am happy.”
Emily Eames shrugged, “James is holding family blackmail material over me unless I agreed to everything he asked this evening.” She didn't sound overly annoyed by this fact however, so Arthur was suspecting it might just be an excuse.
“Cobb? You can't seriously think this is a good idea.” Arthur's last hope and bastion of sanity.
“Sorry Arthur, I'm a responsible father of two now and all my other male friends are already married. This may be my last chance to do something completely disreputable; you can't really ask me to give that up.” Cobb explained reasonably whilst crushing all of Arthur's hopes irredeemably beneath his puppy-dog eyes.
Well, fuck.
Clearly sensing weakness, Eames chose that moment to lord his imminent victory over him by casually slinging an army around his neck, and wasn't it an indication that Arthur may have already had a few too many that he let him get away with that, and murmuring, far too loudly, in his ear, “Think about it this way darling, at least we'll both be admiring the same view.”
“As long as all you're doing is admiring.” Arthur grudgingly admitted defeat.
“Arthur, I'm insulted you'd ever think such a thing.” Eames said in a tone that distinctly wasn't. “Come on then, we don't want to miss the start.”
“Fine, but since you all want to drag me into this, you're all buying me the drinks I need to survive it.” Because the least he could get from this mess was well and truly intoxicated.
++++
Ow, ow, ow.
Arthur cautiously, hesitantly, cracked open his eyes as his body made a not inconsiderable attempt to bring him swimming back towards consciousness. He wished it wouldn't. The light caused a burning, all-consuming pain to pierce his skull, as if someone had decided to jab his eyeballs with sharp, burning hot needles. Pain like this shouldn't exist outside a dream, in fact it shouldn't even exist in a dream, it shouldn't exist at all.
He closed his eyes again, giving up on vision, and let himself drift on the last remnants of drunkenness. If he was lucky, sleep would claim him and he'd manage to sleep through the worse of it, although given how his mind was remaining stubbornly alert despite the brass-band concerto ongoing in his brain, he doubted that would be the case.
Worse however than the pain, and the nausea inducing sensation that the bed was in fact made of water, was the blank hole where his memories of the previous evening should be. He could remember going into the strip club, he could remember the pitchers of some foul tasting and highly alcoholic, not to mention vibrant pink, thank you Ariadne, cocktail being bought, and he could remember… well, that was about it. Except for the nagging sensation there was something he was missing, something vitally important he'd forgotten.
A vague recollection surfaced of someone, possibly even Eames himself, ordering him a private dance; he must have been excessively drunk by that point already to even think of agreeing to it. He could also recall the amused look on Eames face during it distinctly moving towards jealous as the dance got a little too much towards the intimate. His stomach rolled again at the memory, the bed seeming to move in time.
Except it actually was moving.
His mind helpfully, eventually, concluding that the rolling, watery sensation which he'd until now placed firmly at the feet of excessive alcohol consumption was in fact due to the water bed he appeared to be lying on. A growing feeling of dread that Arthur may have done something horrifically, terribly stupid the night before collided with the clear logic that since a) Eames' mother's house didn't have a water bed and b) he was currently lying on a water bed therefore c) he didn't make it back to their bed last night. Worse, there was definitely someone next to him under the covers, and neither was particularly well dressed.
He sat bolt upright, eyes flying open, “Fuck!” He immediately regretted the action as his head and stomach somehow managed to churned in unison. His bed-partner was clearly unimpressed by the action too as he heard a groan from next to him and then a voice floating up from the depths of the covers.
“Arthur, stop fucking around with the world’s physics again, would you darling? I'm getting sea-sick.” The half-mumbled, mostly incoherent and oh so wonderfully familiar British voice admonished him. Although Arthur's heartfelt relief that whatever else he'd done last night he at the least hadn't quite fucked up the most important relationship of his life, was unfortunately short lived as his stomach choose that moment to helpfully point out that it could see a bathroom through the half open door on the other side of the bed, and he should probably use it.
Once he'd emptied the contents of his stomach he felt considerably better, by which he meant he could actually open his eyes and move about without wishing a horrible death on the world and all things in it. He looked around the room blearily and winced. The sight was not helping. In fact, he suspected that even sober, it would be causing him considerable pain.
It was pink. Incredibly, immensely, pink, or at least it was where the wallpaper wasn't peeling or stained. It looked like someone's idea of a romantic 'love-nest' if their entire concept of love was based off bad 70s porn. In addition pink wallpaper, with matching pink faux fur highlights on the various fixtures and accoutrements, its carpet was one large a zebra print, the bedside tables were silver and sparkled and the mirrors in the bathroom were shaped into hearts. In the middle of it all, like a seedy centre piece to the display, was a large heart shaped water-bed. There was no doubt, at all in Arthur's mind, whose fault this was and his name began with E.
In his current state of pain, however, the whole thing was too much to take in and so he decided the best course of action was to return to said bed, curl up next to the currently sleeping Eames and hope that by the time he woke up again the room would have miraculously been transformed into something more appropriate, or at least something less liable to make him feel dirty by its mere presence.
The pain had receded by the time he awoke the second time, no doubt in part due to his stomach's concerted attempt to rid itself of the cause of his discomfort. This time is was a slow, languid meander towards consciousness, a relatively rare occurrence for him given his usual tendency to move from deep sleep to full awareness, if not necessarily wakefulness, in one sudden leap. In fact, this sort of thing only tended to happen after, well, nights like the one he'd just had and since he was in little doubt that his hangover would return with a vengeance if he even thought about moving, he decided to just lie back and enjoy it.
The world, unfortunately, had other plans and no sooner had he started to doze off than he heard a soft but insistent beep from the vicinity of what he assumed to be his clothes.
“Ugh,” he attempted to burrow deeper in the furnace of his partner that he was currently curled around. Maybe if he ignored it, it would go away.
He heard an answering groan from Eames as a second, more insistent beep, “Arthur, could you be a dear and use your l33t point man skills and turn that bloody thing off.”
“My what?” Arthur was pretty certain that somewhere in his sleep-fogged mind he'd managed to mishear him, surely the forger hadn't just said 'l33t' had he?
“That's what you called them last night, or don't you remember?” Despite being half asleep, the forger still managed to sound amused by the whole thing.
Arthur decided to ignore the question, because he was not going to admit that it was possible he got far, far more drunk on the previous night than his partner had, and instead staggered out his bed to find his phone.
Three new texts.
With a certain level of trepidation he opened them, because after a night like that these could be nothing good. The first was thankfully a mundane text from Paulo informing him that they made it to the hotel and enquiring if he wanted to meet up for a drink later so Arthur could introduce them to 'the man crazy enough to want to risk marrying you', the second was from Cobb letting him know that he and Emily had managed to make it back to the house ok, and Arthur could vaguely remember the two of them bowing out sometime soon after the strip club visit, claiming children and work responsibilities respectively.
The final text however was more ominous, a gleeful message from Ariadne saying “Jst bc u confiscated my camera, don't thnk I don't have pics!” Arthur stared at it for a while, desperately trying to wrack his brain and figure out what, exactly, he could have been doing that was so embarrassing that he'd attempt, even in his inebriated state, to destroy all the photographic evidence. His mind was still however coming up depressingly blank.
His puzzlement obviously showed on his face because Eames propped himself up in the bed and commented, “It's far too early to be looking that pensive, come back to bed.” Somehow, despite looking completely wrecked and suffering from a bad case of bed-head, Eames managed to inject that final suggestion with enough of a purr so as to sound positively sinful.
Arthur, with some effort, ignored it, instead asking with trepidation, “Why did I confiscate Ariadne's camera?”
The grin that broke out across his partner's face definitely did not bode well for Arthur's sanity, “Having a few memory problems are we?” He sounded far too smug for this early in the morning.
“Shut up.”
“No, no, it's sweet,” Eames was definitely enjoying himself, the bastard.
“I'm ignoring you right now.” Arthur informed him tartly, because Eames was incorrigible in this sort of mood, and he really could not deal with it in his current state of mind.
Eames shrugged, “Suit yourself.” He was still smirking however, and somehow that was worse than if he'd been gleefully regaling Arthur with all the gory details.
He gave in, “What did I do?”
“Well, after the strip club, you do remember that don't you?” Arthur glared because he was firmly blaming Eames for that one, “You decided you wanted to go dancing.”
“I decided?” Arthur was sceptical, because although he could dance, very well in fact, it wasn't something he usually liked to indulge in public.
“Oh yes, you were very insistent. Only the club we ended up in wasn't quite your idea of dancing, so you decided to show everyone how it was done.” Eames looked positively gleeful during his recounting.
Arthur groaned, “Oh god, tell me I didn't.”
“You didn't.” Eames immediately replied
“Thank god,” because that would have been far too embarrassing.
“Except you did. Dragged me onto the dance floor and after we'd had a brief tête-à-tête as to who should lead, which you won I will add, you are very obstinate when drunk aren't you? You proceeded to demonstrate to all present the sort of moves that would be more at home on Strictly Come Dancing than a down-market SoHo club.” The smirk stretching across the forger's face by the end of the tale should have been illegal.
“And you didn't stop me? Asshole.” Because really, if Eames had been the more sober one of them, he should have known better than to leave Arthur do something like that.
“You seemed to be having so much fun, it would have been a crime.” Eames chuckled, clearly disagreeing with the assessment. “Ariadne filmed the whole thing, so you confiscated her camera.” Which explained the text, although if Arthur had removed the camera, he didn't want to think how she's still managed to get pictures.
Of course that still left a couple of things unexplained. “So where did my 'l33t point man skills' come into it?”
“Oh that. You tried defend my honour when a couple of chavs decided to get it into their tiny little minds that two blokes who could do the rumba together were clearly an easy target.” Arthur snorted at Eames' mention of his so-called honour, but the forger ignored him, “Laid one of them out with a single punch when he made a grab for me, which was very rude of you darling, since I was about to do the honours myself, and then proceeded to tell his friends, in graphic detail, exactly why we were the wrong 'pair of poofs' to pick on.”
Arthur groaned, that was possibly worse that he'd imagined. Although he supposed he should probably be thankful they were waking up in a seedy hotel room rather than a police station after that sort of display.
“At which point the bouncers came over and threw them out. Apparently they'd been causing trouble all evening and security was looking for an excuse to get rid of them, so it all worked out well.”
“And then what, you decided to drag me to this god-awful hotel room in some misguided attempt at a romantic end to the evening?”
“Not exactly,” If anything, Eames' smirk managed to get even wider, which did not bode well for Arthur's sanity, “see it was getting pretty late by then and the night buses don't go even half way towards where we needed to be and you were pretty insistent you wouldn't manage a taxi ride with your stomach contents intact, so we decided to find a hotel.”
“And let me guess, this was the last room they had available.” Arthur demanded sceptically, anticipating the forger's inevitable excuse to their current predicament
“Oh no, you choose this one especially when you saw the pictures. You were pretty insistent that it would be romantic and that I should be glad you were making the effort, or some such bollocks, you were getting a bit incoherent by that point.” Eames smirk, which had to be hurting by this point, turned into a pout as he continued “Not that I got to take advantage of your newly developed romantic streak, since you passed out on me.”
Arthur could feel the flush start to spread across the cheeks, “Shit, sorry.”
“You can always make it up to me now.” Eames wiggled his eyebrows in a way that was no doubt meant to be seductive but really just ended up looking ridiculous. “I've never tried doing it on a waterbed before.” Nor had Arthur for that matter.
“Is that so? Maybe it's time to rectify that oversight.” Arthur was very glad that he'd insisted they hold the stag do at least two days before the ceremony to give them time to recover, since he was pretty certain neither of them would be doing much outside of bed today.
++++
Step 5 - The Wedding
Arthur checked carefully that the hallway was clear, looking both ways before making his way out the door and towards his target. He moved quietly, stealthily, picking his steps carefully, sticking to the plush, thick carpet to muffle his steps. Even so, the house was old and every so often a floor-board would creek as pressure was placed upon it, and at each one he froze, concerned that this one noise would be the one to raise the alarm.
Eventually, mercifully, he made it to his target, gently opening the door and slipping inside. He leaned against it once closed, breathing deeply in his relief. He'd made it.
“I seem to remember something about it being bad luck for us to see each other before the wedding,” Eames' amused voice floated out across the room from the dressing table, a family heirloom and legacy from a previous occupant he'd assured the pointman when asked, where he was attempting to ineffectually fix his bow-tie.
Arthur raised an eyebrow at him, “Unless you're planning on attending the ceremony in drag, I suspect we may be safe from that one.”
He slumped down in one of the soft, plush chairs that seemed to litter most of the bedrooms in the place and sighed. “Remind me why we're doing this again?”
“Ah, having a case of pre-wedding jitters darling?” Eames teased, although Arthur was pretty sure he could hear an underlying anxiety in the forger's voice.
He snorted in derision, “Hardly, the wedding is the easy bit. It's everything else that seems to come with it. This is the first moment of peace I've managed to get all day.”
“Ah, I tried to convince you of the merits of eloping several months ago,” Eames commented smugly, and either he was being his typically laid back self or it was only Arthur who'd had to deal with everyone and his dog hovering around him, tying up last minute preparations, checking their best man's speech or, in one particular case, making threats against life and limb.
“Ok, I was wrong, you were right. Las Vegas is looking very tempting right about now.” Arthur was an adult; he could admit it when he was wrong.
Eames hummed, “I was thinking more along the lines of Gretna Green, but it's a bit late for that, Mother would kill me if we ran out now.” He considered for a few minutes before amending, “Or more likely she'd send Emily to do it for her.”
“Your sister is a scary girl,” Arthur agreed with a small shudder, “she just threatened to ensure I was on every single watch-list and no-fly order for every country the UK has friendly diplomatic relations with if I even thought of breaking your heart.” He wasn't entirely sure how much stock to put in that, although with his record he wouldn't put it past her to manage it.
“Ah, that conversation.” Eames smiled knowingly, “If it makes you feel any better Cobb cornered me for that one about three years ago. I get the impression he was practising for when Phillipa was old enough to date.” Eames added the last bit upon seeing Arthur's inevitable scowl at the news that Cobb was attempting to meddle in his personal affairs, because he was not a child dammit, no matter how much currently he felt like throwing a tantrum like one.
Arthur considered several suitable retorts before discarding them, settling finally for, “You'll just have to be careful not to break my heart then, won't you?”
A serious, intense expression settle over the forger’s face and he move up to kneel down in front the chair, saying with absolute honesty, “I'd rather die, Arthur.”
“Fuck, whatever did I do to deserve you?” The words were pulled from Arthur's lips almost involuntarily, as much a prayer as a statement.
The moment was broken before Eames could respond by a loud knock on the door. “Arthur, Eames? Please God, tell me you're both decent in there.” Cobb's voice echoed through the thick oak. Not waiting for a reply, a trait which would no doubt ensure that one day he was greeted with a sight he really didn't want to see, the extractor opened the door and stuck his head round.
Yusuf was hovering just behind him, both of them grinning like loons despite their attempts to look disapproving at the grooms being found together before the wedding had even started. “Ceremony starts in 10 minutes.”
Arthur stood up and with a sigh of exasperation leaned over to redo Eames' bow-tie, even as the forger brushed a couple of pieces of lint off his suit jacket. He gestured to the doorway, “Ready, Mr. Eames?”
“Always, darling. Always.”
The End
pairing: Arthur/Eames
rating: PG-13
disclaimer: I own nothing, I'm just playing with them.
Warnings: Fluff, angst (mostly fluff really - teeth rotting levels of fluff)
Summary: Who would have thought getting married would be quite so complex a task?
Word count: 8,400 (why can't I write short fics anymore?)
Author's note: Next and final part of this one, my last stab at fluff before I'm firmly back with the angst for the final part of The Man Who Trilogy. This sits firmly in The Man Who... universe, set about a year after None of the Luck. It can be read in isolation but the most will be gained if Only Dreams and None of the Luck have been read previously.
Thank you to my beta sweetsigh, your feedback ended up making me write what I actually consider to be my favourite (ok, second favourite) line of the fic.
Step 2 - Break the news (part 2 - friends)
“Eames and I are getting married.” Arthur said in the same tone as if he had just been talking about level design and escape routes they were currently working on. Even so, the effect was impressive as every face around him turned towards him in synchronisation, from the projections suited out in their Sunday best, to the choir boys in their robes, to even the priest at the alter.
“You're what?” Cobb choked, incredulous. Maybe, just maybe, Arthur reflected, it hadn't been the best idea to break the news whilst they were in the middle of a practice-run, especially not one in Cobb's Mal-free but still far from stable subconscious. The rest of the team had, thankfully, by this point already exited the dream.
“I said, we're getting married,” the answer wasn't making things any better.
In fact, the error of timing was particularly evident when the projections stopped just looking and starting moving towards them -well, him - with a clear intent and purpose. Of course, that could have also had something to do with the complex paradox trap he'd just created out of the Cathedral's central tower. Glancing warily at the incoming projections, he considered this to be an appropriate time to try it out.
Cobb, however, wasn't moving, just squinting at him at him in confused disbelief as if he couldn't quite process the pointman's words, “Why are you telling me this now?”
Arthur glanced around at the wedding decorations that festooned every available surface, a testament to a mark engaged to be married and a fiancée whose father had a suspicion that the match was more to do with the money she was in line to inherit than with any feelings of love or affection. He raised an eyebrow dryly, “It seemed appropriate for some reason, can’t think why.”
He glanced around at the increasingly hostile projections around them. He fingered his gun in anticipation. This was not particularly the place he wanted to discuss this, conveniently ignoring the voice in his head reminding him that he was the one who brought the topic up.
“You're seriously telling me you and Eames are getting married?” Cobb repeated in disbelief once they'd both woken up feeling only slightly worse for wear.
“You’re getting married?” The excited exclamation from Ariadne carried across the room, drowning out any response Arthur was going to make.
He barely had time to blink when the petite architect had come bounding up to him upon hearing the news. “Congratulations, can I see the rings?” she all but squealed, dragging Arthur into a large hug, before moving over to do the same to Eames.
Yusuf had a small knowing smile on his face, as he too offered his well-wishes “Yes, congratulations, you're a braver man than I, Arthur.” He didn't sound particularly surprised by the news.
“You knew!” Aridane pointed a finger at him accusingly.
“Of course I knew, Eames told me last week.” The chemist sounded completely and utterly unapologetic, because of course Eames would had gotten round to telling Yusuf already.
“Why did he get to know first?” Ariadne gave Eames an incriminatory glare.
Eames, because he was a smug bastard, looked completely unfazed, merely grinning and deftly off-loaded the blame onto the man he allegedly loved. “We split up the job of breaking the news to everyone: I got Yusuf, he got you and Cobb. Unfortunately, it seems that Arthur darling was remiss in completing his homework promptly.”
Arthur was becoming less and less convinced of his affections by the second; the fact that the accusation was true was beside the point. “Just because we're engaged, doesn't mean I can't kill you.” He gave Eames his best, I will make you beg for death glare.
The forger just continued to grin, seemingly completely oblivious to the threat. Eames never had been particularly concerned when Arthur made threats against life and limb, a fact that probably held some sort of deeper meaning if he could be bothered to look for it, “Ah, but then who would you marry?”
Arthur raised an eyebrow at him, “I'm sure I'd fine a suitable replacement.”
“I thought you said I was irreplaceable?”
“No I said you were irredeemable, there's a difference.”
“Are you sure you two aren't already married?” Ariadne was looking at them with an amused smile, then quickly shifted subject “So go on, tell me all the details? Have you set a date yet? Who proposed to who? Tell me everything.”
As Ariadne bombarded them with questions, which Eames was more than happy to answer in a somewhat exaggerated, if not entirely fabricated fashion, the gossip that he was, Arthur couldn't help but notice that Cobb had surreptitiously taken the distraction to slip out the side door of the old office block they were using as their base.
++++
“You know, I hear the usual reaction when hearing your best friend has gotten engaged is to say congratulations.” Arthur confronted him once he found him, trying to gain some measure of control over the anger which had been simmering through him ever since he'd noticed the extractor was gone before he did something that Cobb would regret.
“Arthur.” Cobb started, clearly not having heard him approach, “No, no, I'm very happy for you. It's just a bit sudden, that's all.” He somehow managed to look guilty, concerned, and nervous all at once, although the latter may have been because he recognised the expression on Arthur's face.
“We've been dating five and half years, if that's your idea of sudden, I'd hate to know what you think of consists of a long engagement.” Arthur almost spat the words out, because Cobb had married Mal after knowing her for just over a year, so it was frankly hypocritical if he thought Arthur was moving too fast.
“It never seemed that serious,” Cobb responded awkwardly. He cleared his throat uncertainly and squinted at Arthur in a manner that was no doubt meant to be some sort of fatherly concern but really case off to the pointman as being patronising, “Are you sure its not because of, well, you know.”
“What? No, fuck you, Cobb. Why does everything have to come back to that? I'm over it, it's in the past. Why the fuck can't you just be happy for me?” Arthur couldn't help the venom in his voice at that, because if there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was being treated like some sort of fragile thing who somehow couldn't make his own choices without there needing to be some deep rooted psychological cause. It was the cause of no few arguments with Eames as it was; the last thing he needed was for Cobb to start harping on about it too.
“Shit, I'm sorry, Arthur, I didn't mean it like that, I am happy for you, truly,” he laughed depreciatingly before continuing, “It's just, you know, it's Eames - the man I remember you telling me couldn't commit to a one night stand, let alone anything else.”
Arthur tried to stay angry, to somehow defend his and Eames' position, honour, whatever, but the absurdity of the situation, combined with Cobb's earnest, concerned expression overtook him, melting the anger away. He could feel amusement tugging at his lips and he responded with no small amount of humour, “Yeah, it came as a shock to him too.”
Cobb laughed at that, an honest, amused sound that was heard more and more recently but never failed to amaze Arthur given how he was but a few short years ago. The sound was infectious and it didn't take long before he was joining in.
“So really, five years?” Cobb asked finally once he'd gotten his breath back. He paused briefly, clearly doing the mental calculations in his head, “You never said. I always figured you got together after the Fischer job.”
Arthur shrugged, “You had other things on your mind at the time and, well, we weren't exactly couple of the year at that point either.” Which was, he reflected, probably an understatement.
Cobb laughed as he realised the implications, “Jeez, no wonder you didn't want me calling him in.”
“It worked out pretty well in the end,” Arthur could feel what was no doubt an immensely sappy smile tugging at the edge of his lips at the recollection and tried desperately to school his features into something more dignified. He had a suspicion he wasn't doing a very good job.
“Congratulations. I mean it, I'm happy for you.”
“Good, because, I want you to be my best man.” Nervousness was rarely an issue for Arthur when asking for things. He generally knew what he wanted and went, except, well except when it came to asking personal favours, things he often felt he had no right to ask. So he busied himself with lighting up a cigarette, eyes fixed on its glowing tip, so he wouldn't have to look at Cobb as he waited for his response.
He needn't have worried, “Arthur, I'd love to be your best man. After all, it seems only fair I return the favour.”
++++
Step 3 - Planning the wedding
Planning a wedding, even a small, straightforward, civil partnership ceremony, was far more complex than Arthur had originally given credit. Somehow, he felt, organising the thing shouldn't be even close to as difficult as, say, organising an illegal extraction. Yet Arthur was beginning to think that taking on the most complex, intricate, and dangerous mind-heist, or for that matter Inception, was infinitely preferable to having to talk to another person about the invitations, or catering, or any of the hundred and one things that a modern wedding seemed to entail.
Of course the fact that they, and by ‘they’ Arthur meant mostly himself since Eames seemed content to leave everything to the last minute and then offer unhelpful advice when things inevitably went wrong, were doing so whilst also being internationally wanted mind criminals hardly helped matters.
For a start it ensured that things like this happened, Arthur contemplated wearily as he heard his phone, his personal phone, go off yet again whilst in the middle of a planning meeting.
Offering a tight apologetic smile to their current extractor and a glare towards Eames who was, almost by his mere presence, distinctly not helping, he answered it, already dreading the fact it was no doubt going to be some company attempting to sell him the perfect something to ensure his dream wedding came true.
“Hello, Mr. Miller? This is Sandra calling from Hanley florists,” the far too chipper voice greeting him on the other end. He silently swore to himself that once this was over, he was burning this phone, cursing the fact that he couldn't get away with the only place his full real name appearing in conjunction with the event being the marriage certificate.
“Yes?” he responded sharply, hoping whoever was on the other end would get the hint and keep the conversation short. No such luck.
“I'm sorry for calling you like this, I just wanted to confirm that your order for your wedding on the 25th of July. I notice from our records you are not ordering a bouquet with the rest of the flowers?”
“No, we're not, and nor do we intend to,” Arthur ground out with no small measure of irritation.
“Are you sure, sir?” The voice continued, oblivious on the other end, “It's just there is a discount when ordered with the rest of the wedding flowers and most brides find the bouquet to be an integral part of the wedding, I'm certain your fiancée would not wish to miss out on having the best possible.”
Why, Arthur wondered silently, could these people not take a simple 'no' at face value. Taking a deep breath, he tried to remain calm as he explained, “Well since there is not going to be a bride at this wedding I hardly see that being a problem.”
There was a pause on the other end, clearly as Sandra adjusted her preconceptions of what, exactly, this particular marriage entailed. Arthur had to give it to her, it didn't take her long to recover, “Very well, sir. I also understand you have only ordered enough flowers to decorate the reception hall. Are you certain you don't wish to order any for the ceremony itself?”
“No, no I do not.” Arthur was starting to loose the fight to keep his patience. Unfortunately, he suspected that turning his I am going to cause you grievous bodily harm if you don't do exactly as I say voice on a flowergirl was hardly the way to ensure the flowers they did want turned up in their appropriate arrangements, no matter how satisfying it would be. “The ceremony is going to be taking place in a garden, aptly called, I am told, The Rose Garden. As it already has flowers in it, it doesn't need any more.”
Despite what he thought was almost admirable levels of restraint, the girl on the other end sniffed and reprimanded him snottily, “There's no need to be rude, sir, I was only asking.”
“Right, right, I'm sorry. Is there anything else?” Please god don't let there be anything else
“No, that's everything. The flowers will be delivered the day before as arranged. Good day sir, I hope you enjoy your wedding.” She rang off and Arthur closed his phone with a frustrated sigh.
He turned back towards the other end of the office where the planning meeting was currently taking place, noticing as he did so that the remaining members of his team were looking at him with curious, and somewhat bemused expressions. Well, three of them looked bemused, the final one was expertly sitting in between amused and smug, with possibly a hint of a teasing grin at the edges.
“Not a word,” he growled out before any of them could open their mouths. Three jaws slammed shut with a satisfying alacrity, his reputation enough for none of them to be willing to try their luck when he was in this sort of mood.
Unfortunately, it didn't seem to work on everyone, “Problem with the flowers was that, Arthur?”
“Shut up, this is all your mother's fault.” Because she was the one insisting that they needed at least some flowers to decorate the Grand Hall for the reception. Up until that point, he'd been more than happy to forgo the idea of flowers all-together, although he would admit that she possibly did have a point, from a purely stylistic point of view, it really didn't seem worth the hassle.
Eames continued to look unrepentantly smug, and Arthur could almost predict, word for word, what would be next, “Well I told you not to let her get involved in the planning.”
He had, too, repeatedly, but she had been really quite adamant with regards to the fact that the Historic Gardens (her capitalisation) at the Eames family home was a licensed wedding venue, and if random strangers can get wedded on the grounds our ancestors so lovingly created, surely it wasn't too much to ask that her son could do the same. The Dowager Lady Lexinton was a formidable woman when she wanted to, and it was quite clear where Eames had inherited his ability to completely ignore any possible counter-arguments as if they were utterly irrelevant.
On a more practical note, holding the wedding in the gardens certainly did have a security appeal, since it would be considerably more discrete, easier to control access to only invited guests and, with use of the Grand Hall for the reception, ensure that everything took place in a single location. The downside however was that Eames' mother was, as such, inevitably and intimately involved in the preparations.
Before, however, Arthur could come up with a suitably scathing reply that the forger's smug I told you so certainly deserved, their extractor, a young Belgian con artist turned mind criminal called Yves, cleared his throat, “If you two 'lovebirds' have quite finished, I believe we still have a job to plan?”
“Lovebirds?” They both turned on the poor boy simultaneously, Arthur an imperiously raised eyebrow indicating his displeasure, Eames a viciously shark-like grin. It was, Arthur would admit to himself, possibly somewhat cruel thing to do, but it had the desired effect as Yves paled and started backing away from them.
“Ah, bon, I mean to say, carry on, s'il vous plait.” The babble coming out of his mouth was probably more a testament to the short period of time he'd been in the dreamsharing business than anything else but Arthur couldn't help but find the effect gratifying, not to mention satisfying that here, at least, there was still someone he could intimidate when he wanted to.
++++
In fairness to Eames' mother, she did not, in fact, attempt to take over the organisation entirely, rather containing herself to offering appropriate tid-bits of advice born from having had a son, various siblings and at least one niece of her own having gone through the process previously.
The only area she did ensure she had considerable influence over was the catering, and since it was her kitchen the caterers were going to be using, that was probably fair. It also meant that it was one less problem for Arthur to deal with, which given that they'd been engaged in one particularly complex job after another for the past six months, was probably a good thing.
In fact, the only sticking point was the guest list.
Eames' mother, naturally, felt that pretty much anyone with Eames as a surname should be there to celebrate the event in proper, time-honoured manner. This was, of course, something both Arthur and Eames fundamentally disagreed with, not least because the forger considered most of his non-immediate family to be insane at best and in a few cases barely even human.
Thankfully, this was an argument that Arthur was happy to have absolutely no part of, his own invitations having been prepared, written and sent for weeks now (and indeed, all accepted with one notable exception), a mercifully short list consisting of Cobb (plus children), Miles, Ariadne (plus one if she wanted), Yusuf (though he was already invited as Eames' best man), Paulos and Warren, old army buddies who'd gone into business together on the shadier side of 'private security' and had remained good friends and useful contacts ever since, and Johan, a chemist he'd known for close to a decade now.
And his brother. Because even if they never got on, he couldn't help but feel that it was important to have at least one family member present. Maybe after all these years, without the spectre of their father coming between them they might even be able to make amends.
Looking back on it, the list was almost pitifully short, a testament to a life spent in an occupation hardly given to making lasting friendships, a factor not entirely helped by his own purposeful skill in dropping off the radar and breaking all contact when the situation required it. In fact there was a good chance the list would have been even shorter if Ariadne, in her sweet innocence when it came to illegal endeavours, hadn't insisted in all of 'Team Inception', as she liked to name them, to keep in contact over the years.
Still, at least it meant he didn't have to field phone-calls like the one Eames was currently engaged in with the indomitable Lucy Eames.
“Mother, I don't care if she's my cousin, Margery is twice my age, certifiably insane and I haven't seen her since I was twelve. She's not being invited.” Eames gave Arthur an apologetic smile and rolled his eyes as he stretched out on the threadbare sofa, clearly settling in for the long-haul.
They had been working late in the old art studio their current team was renting for the job, going through research and files on the mark, attempting to identify an angle, a weak-spot they could exploit. Of course this task wasn't helped at the time by the fact that the mark had also recently gotten engaged, and the various wedding related invoices and wire-tapped conversations about invitations, venues, DJs and caterers inevitably led the discussion more towards matrimonial practicalities than exploitable weaknesses.
Arthur had been close to calling it a night, with a silent eulogy to their clearly dead and buried sense of professionalism, when the phone had rang offering up a merciful distraction. Not to mention, of course, a convenient excuse to avoid having to admit defeat.
“No, we're not inviting Uncle Roger either because he's a homophobic old git who'd frown throughout the ceremony and then, once he'd gotten over the fact that I was marrying a man, would go on to complain about the fact that Arthur was still American.” He paused, moving the phone slightly away from his ear as he did so to avoid being deafened by whatever his mother was saying, before bringing it back to continue his argument.
Arthur tuned most of it out, instead eyed Eames’ sock-clad feet stretching out over the arm of the chair. The temptation was far to great to resist, and he casually ran his finger along the insole of the forger's foot, just as he was in the middle of explaining to his mother that the carefully pruned list of relatives that were being invited had been chosen so as to maximally reduce the amount of inevitable bloodshed which happened at these sorts of family functions.
Arthur smirked as Eames yelped at the contact, drawing his legs up to his chest in an attempt to remove them from the vicinity of the pointman's roving hands.
“That, darling, was just cruel. No, not you, Mother, Arthur just brushed my feet. Yes, I'm pretty sure he is well aware of how ticklish I am there.” Eames gave Arthur a look that was somewhere in between a glare and a pout, which the pointman ignored in favour of stealing the section of sofa that the forger's legs had recently vacated.
It only took a few minutes for the Brit's legs to make their way back over Arthur's side of the sofa, which was really just asking for trouble. Not, of course, that Arthur would do the same trick twice, oh no, Eames would be far to prepared for that. Rather he let his hands casually wander up the forger's thighs, lightly at first then with growing pressure.
“Yes, I have sent an invitation to Aunt Eileen and Uncle Tom. Ah” Eames' breath eventually lost his composure when Arthur hand reached his belt-line, an almost involuntary sigh emerging from the forger’s lips, “No, mother, I'm fine, just moved wrong.”
He tried to give Arthur a small kick with his legs to get him to cease and desist, which the pointman caught easily. Turn-about was, after all, fair play and the last time Eames had pulled this stunt on him, he'd been on the phone to a rather unforgiving client, so he had absolutely no sympathy for the other man's distress.
He did stop however when he felt the forger go tense, his expression moving quickly from the mock-glare he'd otherwise been sporting to a carefully neutral calm. “I don't think that would be a good idea.”
Eames listened seriously for a moment, “No, no, I'll ask him but it's complicated. Look, I'll call you back. No, really I will. Yes, love you too.” The whole exchanged piqued Arthur's interest, and not in a good way.
“What will you have to ask me then?” Arthur enquired sharply once he'd rung off.
“Seating arrangements,” Eames informed him airily, regaining his casual composure, although Arthur was pretty certain it was an act, “Mother's all in a flap about who to put where and what to do with two best men and no father of the bride. I told her you'd sort it all out.” The forger gave him a beatific smile, a clear taunt designed to keep Arthur focused on the fact he'd been saddled with yet another thing to arrange.
Arthur wasn't in the mood to be played with, however. It was far too late to deal with one of Eames' games, “Like hell it was,” he snapped out angrily, “Cut the crap, Eames. What did she want?”
Sensing that Arthur wasn't going to drop it, the forger instead changed tacts, swinging his legs round to sit up properly and enquiring sharply, “Who's Joseph Miller? I was pretty certain we weren't speaking to any of your family, or did that happen to slip your mind.”
Arthur could feel his jaw clench almost involuntarily, anger starting to built within him, because what the fuck?.“I didn't realise I needed your permission.”
“Forgive me for wanting to know who's turning up to my own wedding.” Eames snapped back, sarcasm dripping off every word.
“That's rich coming from you, with your Aunt Eileens and Uncle Rogers.”
“It's Uncle Tom, Aunt Eileen and Uncle Tom.”
“Whatever.” he dismissed Eames' reply because he was being pedantic and that was Arthur's job. “The point is it seems like you're going to have half a dozen family members there I've never met or particularly want to. But I invite one single person from mine and suddenly it’s a big deal?”
“Yes but my family never le...” Eames brain seemed to catch up with his mouth suddenly and he slammed his jaw shut mid-sentence. “You know what, forget it. You can invite whoever you want darling, you're right, it's no business of mine.”
“No, I want to hear what you have to say. Your family never what, Eames? Go on, say it.”
Eames sighed, running his hand over his face. He looked pained, tired, as if the argument had taken all the fight out of him, “My family never left me with scars all over my body. Fuck, Arthur, I'm just worried about you, that's all, I don't want you to feel you have to have family there just because Mother's insisting I invite along half the Eames clan.”
Oh.
“He's my brother,” Arthur offered eventually after an awkward pause, “And it’s irrelevant, because he's not coming.” He finished this last one bitterly, thinking of the less than complementary reply he'd received.
“Oh love,” Eames whispered, looking at him with wide, sympathetic eyes, which somehow made things worse than if he'd said nothing at all, because Arthur hated being reminded of weakness.
“Don't, I don't need this pitying bullshit from you, too. I extended the olive branch, if the asshole doesn't want to take it, that's his problem.” He knew he was being unfair by taking this out on Eames; it wasn't the forger's fault that his brother was a dick.
Sensing his mood, one of the advantages Arthur supposed of dating a man who manipulated people's emotions for a living, Eames changed tact asking instead, “Are you sure you're actually related to him? Because clearly the man's an idiot, it's the only explanation. We'll just have to work on making our own family for you instead.”
“Please tell me that wasn't a suggestion we should think about having kids.” And wasn't that a terrifying idea, because Arthur had no desire whatsoever to become a father, any small measure of paternalistic instinct he may have had being more than assuaged by playing 'Uncle' and Godfather to Phillipa and James.
Thankfully, if the almost comically horrified expression on Eames' face was any indication, the forger was of the same view, “Christ no, don't say things like that to me love, I don't think my heart can take the shock.” He shifted, and a rare uncertain expression appeared on his face. “Unless of course, you want...”
“No, no, God no.” Arthur quickly replied, “Can you imagine kids with our lifestyle? We can hardly manage to take care of the cat as it is. I'm pretty certain I saw her scoping out which of the neighbours had the most advantageous alternative residence last week.”
++++
Step 4 - Stag Night
“Come on love, it's traditional.” Eames was standing under the glowing neon sign, a misty drizzle causing the lights to flicker and dance behind him in an even more grotesque fashion than their designers had clearly intended them too.
Arthur remained sceptical, “I'm sure it's not traditional to drag your partner along too.” Not of course, in his opinion that anything being 'traditional' was really a valid argument, no matter what Eames said.
Unfortunately his so-called friends didn't seem to be helping matters at all. “I dunno, I'm with Eames on this one, you can't have a stag party without strippers,” Ariadne, the traitor, offered with a grin.
“You're just saying that because you want to watch the show yourself.” Arthur dismissed the petite architect and her surprisingly dirty mind and looked around the collection of straight, red-blooded males- well, Cobb and Yusuf - and upstanding members of the British aristocracy - Emily Eames - secure in the knowledge that surely they couldn't actually want to go to a Chatham-dales ('The Chippendales from Chatham!' the sub-heading advertised) show.
Of course what he hadn't necessarily considered was the impact of several pints of British beer, a not inconsiderable amount of vodka chasers and his distinctly-no-longer-friend's desire to revel in his discomfort.
“Will there be alcohol there?” Yusuf asked with a only a slight slur in his voice, which was surprising considering how many he'd had already, “Then I am happy.”
Emily Eames shrugged, “James is holding family blackmail material over me unless I agreed to everything he asked this evening.” She didn't sound overly annoyed by this fact however, so Arthur was suspecting it might just be an excuse.
“Cobb? You can't seriously think this is a good idea.” Arthur's last hope and bastion of sanity.
“Sorry Arthur, I'm a responsible father of two now and all my other male friends are already married. This may be my last chance to do something completely disreputable; you can't really ask me to give that up.” Cobb explained reasonably whilst crushing all of Arthur's hopes irredeemably beneath his puppy-dog eyes.
Well, fuck.
Clearly sensing weakness, Eames chose that moment to lord his imminent victory over him by casually slinging an army around his neck, and wasn't it an indication that Arthur may have already had a few too many that he let him get away with that, and murmuring, far too loudly, in his ear, “Think about it this way darling, at least we'll both be admiring the same view.”
“As long as all you're doing is admiring.” Arthur grudgingly admitted defeat.
“Arthur, I'm insulted you'd ever think such a thing.” Eames said in a tone that distinctly wasn't. “Come on then, we don't want to miss the start.”
“Fine, but since you all want to drag me into this, you're all buying me the drinks I need to survive it.” Because the least he could get from this mess was well and truly intoxicated.
++++
Ow, ow, ow.
Arthur cautiously, hesitantly, cracked open his eyes as his body made a not inconsiderable attempt to bring him swimming back towards consciousness. He wished it wouldn't. The light caused a burning, all-consuming pain to pierce his skull, as if someone had decided to jab his eyeballs with sharp, burning hot needles. Pain like this shouldn't exist outside a dream, in fact it shouldn't even exist in a dream, it shouldn't exist at all.
He closed his eyes again, giving up on vision, and let himself drift on the last remnants of drunkenness. If he was lucky, sleep would claim him and he'd manage to sleep through the worse of it, although given how his mind was remaining stubbornly alert despite the brass-band concerto ongoing in his brain, he doubted that would be the case.
Worse however than the pain, and the nausea inducing sensation that the bed was in fact made of water, was the blank hole where his memories of the previous evening should be. He could remember going into the strip club, he could remember the pitchers of some foul tasting and highly alcoholic, not to mention vibrant pink, thank you Ariadne, cocktail being bought, and he could remember… well, that was about it. Except for the nagging sensation there was something he was missing, something vitally important he'd forgotten.
A vague recollection surfaced of someone, possibly even Eames himself, ordering him a private dance; he must have been excessively drunk by that point already to even think of agreeing to it. He could also recall the amused look on Eames face during it distinctly moving towards jealous as the dance got a little too much towards the intimate. His stomach rolled again at the memory, the bed seeming to move in time.
Except it actually was moving.
His mind helpfully, eventually, concluding that the rolling, watery sensation which he'd until now placed firmly at the feet of excessive alcohol consumption was in fact due to the water bed he appeared to be lying on. A growing feeling of dread that Arthur may have done something horrifically, terribly stupid the night before collided with the clear logic that since a) Eames' mother's house didn't have a water bed and b) he was currently lying on a water bed therefore c) he didn't make it back to their bed last night. Worse, there was definitely someone next to him under the covers, and neither was particularly well dressed.
He sat bolt upright, eyes flying open, “Fuck!” He immediately regretted the action as his head and stomach somehow managed to churned in unison. His bed-partner was clearly unimpressed by the action too as he heard a groan from next to him and then a voice floating up from the depths of the covers.
“Arthur, stop fucking around with the world’s physics again, would you darling? I'm getting sea-sick.” The half-mumbled, mostly incoherent and oh so wonderfully familiar British voice admonished him. Although Arthur's heartfelt relief that whatever else he'd done last night he at the least hadn't quite fucked up the most important relationship of his life, was unfortunately short lived as his stomach choose that moment to helpfully point out that it could see a bathroom through the half open door on the other side of the bed, and he should probably use it.
Once he'd emptied the contents of his stomach he felt considerably better, by which he meant he could actually open his eyes and move about without wishing a horrible death on the world and all things in it. He looked around the room blearily and winced. The sight was not helping. In fact, he suspected that even sober, it would be causing him considerable pain.
It was pink. Incredibly, immensely, pink, or at least it was where the wallpaper wasn't peeling or stained. It looked like someone's idea of a romantic 'love-nest' if their entire concept of love was based off bad 70s porn. In addition pink wallpaper, with matching pink faux fur highlights on the various fixtures and accoutrements, its carpet was one large a zebra print, the bedside tables were silver and sparkled and the mirrors in the bathroom were shaped into hearts. In the middle of it all, like a seedy centre piece to the display, was a large heart shaped water-bed. There was no doubt, at all in Arthur's mind, whose fault this was and his name began with E.
In his current state of pain, however, the whole thing was too much to take in and so he decided the best course of action was to return to said bed, curl up next to the currently sleeping Eames and hope that by the time he woke up again the room would have miraculously been transformed into something more appropriate, or at least something less liable to make him feel dirty by its mere presence.
The pain had receded by the time he awoke the second time, no doubt in part due to his stomach's concerted attempt to rid itself of the cause of his discomfort. This time is was a slow, languid meander towards consciousness, a relatively rare occurrence for him given his usual tendency to move from deep sleep to full awareness, if not necessarily wakefulness, in one sudden leap. In fact, this sort of thing only tended to happen after, well, nights like the one he'd just had and since he was in little doubt that his hangover would return with a vengeance if he even thought about moving, he decided to just lie back and enjoy it.
The world, unfortunately, had other plans and no sooner had he started to doze off than he heard a soft but insistent beep from the vicinity of what he assumed to be his clothes.
“Ugh,” he attempted to burrow deeper in the furnace of his partner that he was currently curled around. Maybe if he ignored it, it would go away.
He heard an answering groan from Eames as a second, more insistent beep, “Arthur, could you be a dear and use your l33t point man skills and turn that bloody thing off.”
“My what?” Arthur was pretty certain that somewhere in his sleep-fogged mind he'd managed to mishear him, surely the forger hadn't just said 'l33t' had he?
“That's what you called them last night, or don't you remember?” Despite being half asleep, the forger still managed to sound amused by the whole thing.
Arthur decided to ignore the question, because he was not going to admit that it was possible he got far, far more drunk on the previous night than his partner had, and instead staggered out his bed to find his phone.
Three new texts.
With a certain level of trepidation he opened them, because after a night like that these could be nothing good. The first was thankfully a mundane text from Paulo informing him that they made it to the hotel and enquiring if he wanted to meet up for a drink later so Arthur could introduce them to 'the man crazy enough to want to risk marrying you', the second was from Cobb letting him know that he and Emily had managed to make it back to the house ok, and Arthur could vaguely remember the two of them bowing out sometime soon after the strip club visit, claiming children and work responsibilities respectively.
The final text however was more ominous, a gleeful message from Ariadne saying “Jst bc u confiscated my camera, don't thnk I don't have pics!” Arthur stared at it for a while, desperately trying to wrack his brain and figure out what, exactly, he could have been doing that was so embarrassing that he'd attempt, even in his inebriated state, to destroy all the photographic evidence. His mind was still however coming up depressingly blank.
His puzzlement obviously showed on his face because Eames propped himself up in the bed and commented, “It's far too early to be looking that pensive, come back to bed.” Somehow, despite looking completely wrecked and suffering from a bad case of bed-head, Eames managed to inject that final suggestion with enough of a purr so as to sound positively sinful.
Arthur, with some effort, ignored it, instead asking with trepidation, “Why did I confiscate Ariadne's camera?”
The grin that broke out across his partner's face definitely did not bode well for Arthur's sanity, “Having a few memory problems are we?” He sounded far too smug for this early in the morning.
“Shut up.”
“No, no, it's sweet,” Eames was definitely enjoying himself, the bastard.
“I'm ignoring you right now.” Arthur informed him tartly, because Eames was incorrigible in this sort of mood, and he really could not deal with it in his current state of mind.
Eames shrugged, “Suit yourself.” He was still smirking however, and somehow that was worse than if he'd been gleefully regaling Arthur with all the gory details.
He gave in, “What did I do?”
“Well, after the strip club, you do remember that don't you?” Arthur glared because he was firmly blaming Eames for that one, “You decided you wanted to go dancing.”
“I decided?” Arthur was sceptical, because although he could dance, very well in fact, it wasn't something he usually liked to indulge in public.
“Oh yes, you were very insistent. Only the club we ended up in wasn't quite your idea of dancing, so you decided to show everyone how it was done.” Eames looked positively gleeful during his recounting.
Arthur groaned, “Oh god, tell me I didn't.”
“You didn't.” Eames immediately replied
“Thank god,” because that would have been far too embarrassing.
“Except you did. Dragged me onto the dance floor and after we'd had a brief tête-à-tête as to who should lead, which you won I will add, you are very obstinate when drunk aren't you? You proceeded to demonstrate to all present the sort of moves that would be more at home on Strictly Come Dancing than a down-market SoHo club.” The smirk stretching across the forger's face by the end of the tale should have been illegal.
“And you didn't stop me? Asshole.” Because really, if Eames had been the more sober one of them, he should have known better than to leave Arthur do something like that.
“You seemed to be having so much fun, it would have been a crime.” Eames chuckled, clearly disagreeing with the assessment. “Ariadne filmed the whole thing, so you confiscated her camera.” Which explained the text, although if Arthur had removed the camera, he didn't want to think how she's still managed to get pictures.
Of course that still left a couple of things unexplained. “So where did my 'l33t point man skills' come into it?”
“Oh that. You tried defend my honour when a couple of chavs decided to get it into their tiny little minds that two blokes who could do the rumba together were clearly an easy target.” Arthur snorted at Eames' mention of his so-called honour, but the forger ignored him, “Laid one of them out with a single punch when he made a grab for me, which was very rude of you darling, since I was about to do the honours myself, and then proceeded to tell his friends, in graphic detail, exactly why we were the wrong 'pair of poofs' to pick on.”
Arthur groaned, that was possibly worse that he'd imagined. Although he supposed he should probably be thankful they were waking up in a seedy hotel room rather than a police station after that sort of display.
“At which point the bouncers came over and threw them out. Apparently they'd been causing trouble all evening and security was looking for an excuse to get rid of them, so it all worked out well.”
“And then what, you decided to drag me to this god-awful hotel room in some misguided attempt at a romantic end to the evening?”
“Not exactly,” If anything, Eames' smirk managed to get even wider, which did not bode well for Arthur's sanity, “see it was getting pretty late by then and the night buses don't go even half way towards where we needed to be and you were pretty insistent you wouldn't manage a taxi ride with your stomach contents intact, so we decided to find a hotel.”
“And let me guess, this was the last room they had available.” Arthur demanded sceptically, anticipating the forger's inevitable excuse to their current predicament
“Oh no, you choose this one especially when you saw the pictures. You were pretty insistent that it would be romantic and that I should be glad you were making the effort, or some such bollocks, you were getting a bit incoherent by that point.” Eames smirk, which had to be hurting by this point, turned into a pout as he continued “Not that I got to take advantage of your newly developed romantic streak, since you passed out on me.”
Arthur could feel the flush start to spread across the cheeks, “Shit, sorry.”
“You can always make it up to me now.” Eames wiggled his eyebrows in a way that was no doubt meant to be seductive but really just ended up looking ridiculous. “I've never tried doing it on a waterbed before.” Nor had Arthur for that matter.
“Is that so? Maybe it's time to rectify that oversight.” Arthur was very glad that he'd insisted they hold the stag do at least two days before the ceremony to give them time to recover, since he was pretty certain neither of them would be doing much outside of bed today.
++++
Step 5 - The Wedding
Arthur checked carefully that the hallway was clear, looking both ways before making his way out the door and towards his target. He moved quietly, stealthily, picking his steps carefully, sticking to the plush, thick carpet to muffle his steps. Even so, the house was old and every so often a floor-board would creek as pressure was placed upon it, and at each one he froze, concerned that this one noise would be the one to raise the alarm.
Eventually, mercifully, he made it to his target, gently opening the door and slipping inside. He leaned against it once closed, breathing deeply in his relief. He'd made it.
“I seem to remember something about it being bad luck for us to see each other before the wedding,” Eames' amused voice floated out across the room from the dressing table, a family heirloom and legacy from a previous occupant he'd assured the pointman when asked, where he was attempting to ineffectually fix his bow-tie.
Arthur raised an eyebrow at him, “Unless you're planning on attending the ceremony in drag, I suspect we may be safe from that one.”
He slumped down in one of the soft, plush chairs that seemed to litter most of the bedrooms in the place and sighed. “Remind me why we're doing this again?”
“Ah, having a case of pre-wedding jitters darling?” Eames teased, although Arthur was pretty sure he could hear an underlying anxiety in the forger's voice.
He snorted in derision, “Hardly, the wedding is the easy bit. It's everything else that seems to come with it. This is the first moment of peace I've managed to get all day.”
“Ah, I tried to convince you of the merits of eloping several months ago,” Eames commented smugly, and either he was being his typically laid back self or it was only Arthur who'd had to deal with everyone and his dog hovering around him, tying up last minute preparations, checking their best man's speech or, in one particular case, making threats against life and limb.
“Ok, I was wrong, you were right. Las Vegas is looking very tempting right about now.” Arthur was an adult; he could admit it when he was wrong.
Eames hummed, “I was thinking more along the lines of Gretna Green, but it's a bit late for that, Mother would kill me if we ran out now.” He considered for a few minutes before amending, “Or more likely she'd send Emily to do it for her.”
“Your sister is a scary girl,” Arthur agreed with a small shudder, “she just threatened to ensure I was on every single watch-list and no-fly order for every country the UK has friendly diplomatic relations with if I even thought of breaking your heart.” He wasn't entirely sure how much stock to put in that, although with his record he wouldn't put it past her to manage it.
“Ah, that conversation.” Eames smiled knowingly, “If it makes you feel any better Cobb cornered me for that one about three years ago. I get the impression he was practising for when Phillipa was old enough to date.” Eames added the last bit upon seeing Arthur's inevitable scowl at the news that Cobb was attempting to meddle in his personal affairs, because he was not a child dammit, no matter how much currently he felt like throwing a tantrum like one.
Arthur considered several suitable retorts before discarding them, settling finally for, “You'll just have to be careful not to break my heart then, won't you?”
A serious, intense expression settle over the forger’s face and he move up to kneel down in front the chair, saying with absolute honesty, “I'd rather die, Arthur.”
“Fuck, whatever did I do to deserve you?” The words were pulled from Arthur's lips almost involuntarily, as much a prayer as a statement.
The moment was broken before Eames could respond by a loud knock on the door. “Arthur, Eames? Please God, tell me you're both decent in there.” Cobb's voice echoed through the thick oak. Not waiting for a reply, a trait which would no doubt ensure that one day he was greeted with a sight he really didn't want to see, the extractor opened the door and stuck his head round.
Yusuf was hovering just behind him, both of them grinning like loons despite their attempts to look disapproving at the grooms being found together before the wedding had even started. “Ceremony starts in 10 minutes.”
Arthur stood up and with a sigh of exasperation leaned over to redo Eames' bow-tie, even as the forger brushed a couple of pieces of lint off his suit jacket. He gestured to the doorway, “Ready, Mr. Eames?”
“Always, darling. Always.”
The End