Fic: How to get married in 5 easy steps 1/2
Title: How to get married in 5 easy steps 1/2
pairing: Arthur/Eames
rating: PG-13
disclaimer: I own nothing, I'm just playing with them.
Warnings: Fluff, angst
Summary: Who would have thought getting married would be quite so complex a task?
Word count: 6581
Author's note: The marriage fic I have been promising for ages. 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 help has been very useful
Step 0 - Proposal
Arthur was going to get married. Well, technically not married, not unless the latest Marriage Equality Bill made it through Parliament before they got around to officially tying the knot. But then that seemed doubtful given the murmurings coming from the Lords. Irrespective of the name applied to it however, it was still a public lifelong commitment to the man he loved.
The concept was, frankly, terrifying. Oh, exhilarating too, but still enough to cause a deep thrill of panic whenever he actually stopped to think about what he was doing.
There was really only one way to deal with this, the same way he dealt with any sort of stress or anxiety - he made a list:
Step 0 - Proposal
Step 1* - Meet the family
Step 2* - Breaking the news to said family and friends
Step 3** - Planning the wedding
Step 4 - Stag night (or other suitable pre-marriage celebration)
Step 5 - Get married
* Note steps 1 and 2 may occur simultaneously or with considerable chronological overlap
** Step likely to take the most time and includes the sub-steps of finding a venue, arranging the flowers, sending out invitations, sourcing appropriate attire, sorting the wedding reception and so on.
Of course looking over the list, drawn from personal observations of friends - well, Dom and Mal- getting married and whichever romantic films he could bring himself to stand watching, it was apparent that they had already managed to miss Step 0. The 'proposal', such as it was, had been more a tacit agreement between the two of them to tie the knot, no rings or declarations of love attached.
It was not, all said, the most auspicious start to the proceedings.
Not that Arthur was particularly looking for a romantic declaration or a grand dramatic proposal made over a candlelit dinner or some other such shit. As comfortable as he was in his manhood, knowing twenty ways to kill a man with his bare hands tended to have that effect, that sort of thing would nonetheless been a little too far towards emasculating for his tastes. Although, that particular view may be the result of what Eames' liked to call his skeletal romance deficiency, or in other words, not having a romantic bone in his body.
Even so, Arthur couldn't help but feel that rings should be involved somewhere before they could really call this an engagement, even in the loosest sense of the term. In many ways it was surprising that Eames hadn't already raised the issue, especially since he seemed considerably more concerned about the traditionally romantic ways of doing things than Arthur.
The thought did bring him a moment of doubt that the suggestion of marriage had really just been a whim, a fleeting fancy that the forger was now regretting and was hoping would be quickly forgotten. As much as the idea gave him pause, he truly did hate the doubt and insecurities that still occasionally plagued him, the feeling that he was too damaged, too fucked up for anyone to truly want to spend their whole life with him. It was, he knew, or at least tried to convince himself, irrational, and he was not about to let it control his life.
Still, that meant it took him close to a week to draw up the courage to broach the topic, something that was not acceptable but probably better than the amount of time it has taken him to actually put into words his feelings for the man (five years, four months, twenty-two days and counting).
“We should buy rings,” he announced suddenly, because there was no realistic build-up you could have to that sort of statement. It's possible Arthur could have chosen a better moment than when Eames was half-way through his need-this-to-feel-human morning coffee but then he wouldn't have had the amusement of watching him half-choke on the beverage as he processed the question.
“Sorry, what?” Eames finally managed to get out and Arthur had to suppress a smirk at the somewhat pained expression on his face. Maybe it wasn't exactly fair to jump this on him before he'd properly joined the land of the living, though his sympathy may have been greater if Arthur hadn't been up a good two hours earlier sorting through files and doing preliminary research for their next job.
“Engagement rings,” Arthur explained, adding, because he could, “I understand it’s traditional for a couple to get them when planning to get married.”
Eames gave him a sharp grin, leaning back casually and gesturing with the spoon he had, up until now, been using to eat his cereal, “Only in certain countries, you can hardly take a limited western tradition and make sweeping generalisations about it like that.”
“Since we are both, last time I checked, from 'western' countries, I'd say it was probably still appropriate.” Arthur responded drily, but it was clear Eames was evading the question and he couldn't help but feel momentary panic that the forger really was reconsidering the whole option. “Unless, of course, you're having second thoughts?” Arthur tried to keep the question nonchalant, as if he really didn't care either way.
Something of his feelings must have shown on his face however, because a look of pure horror crossed the forger's face that would have been almost comical under any other circumstances. Eames, because he was Eames, covered it up quickly, but it had definitely been there.
“No, no, no! Arthur, nothing in the world will make me happier than declaring you my life-long partner in such a way that might be legally binding on those rare occasions we actually decided to use our given names and identities.” Which was, in fairness, rare. But there was no reason why they couldn't arrange for at least one or two of their clean identities to also end up in some sort of wedded bliss, it would certainly help when dealing with hospitals. After all, marriage certificates were, allegedly, one of Eames' speciality.
Still, it didn't answer the original question, “So what's the problem?”
Eames actually looked nervous, a sheepish sort of nervousness, but nervous nonetheless “Well you see, love, Arthur,” he quickly corrected himself and Arthur could feel his eyes narrow almost involuntarily, it was never a good sign when Eames started actively avoiding pet names, it meant he was trying to soften him up for something.
“When my grandmother died, she left me her engagement ring for when I 'found a nice girl', a family heirloom if you will, or possibly a consolation prize since my brother would be getting the title, estates and everything.” Eames was evading the question again, and Arthur raised his eyebrow in a way he was certain would communicate his growing impatience. Quite clearly reading the get on with it message, the forger drew pack to the issues at hand “Anyway, the point of course being, that mother would never let me hear the end of it if I gave you any other ring.”
There had to be more to it than that, or Eames wouldn't be looking so nervous. So, with not a small amount of dread, Arthur forced himself to ask, “What, exactly, does this ring look like?”
Eames grinned at him boyishly, jumping up suddenly, “Give us a sec, I'll get it for you.” Then he was off, no doubt to root around in the junk room of the Manchester flat that the forger liked to pretend was an office.
Arthur figured it would take him a good half an hour or so to find anything in there, so, unwilling to sit around doing nothing whist waiting upon his return, decided to take the opportunity to cut off what would be the last decent slice of bread before the crust. After all, if Eames was going to leave the table half way through breakfast, Arthur could hardly be held responsible for the consequences.
To his not inconsiderable surprise however, he was barely half way through slicing when Eames came back in with the ring. He'd obviously been thinking about this for a while if he found it that easily. For some reason that gave the point man a warm feeling, although that soon vanished once he took a good look at the thing. It somehow managed to be at once delicate and ostentatious, pretty and ugly in equal measures. It was a thin silver band, not only itself encrusted with small transparent diamonds, but set in its centre, proclaiming its wealth to the world, was a stone big enough to shake a stick at. “No, absolutely not, no.”
Undeterred, the Brit pulled it out of its box, moving to thread it onto Arthur's finger, a sincere, intense look on his face, although the slight crinkling of his lips indicated quite clearly that he was enjoying the situation far more than was good for him, “You know, I think it would actually look very fetching on you.”
Arthur moved his hand away quickly, brandishing the bread knife at him as he did, a last line of defence against the hideous monstrosity the man who claimed to be his lover was attempting to foster onto him, “I think you should remember who is currently holding a sharp implement.”
The forger sighed theatrically, “I really can't persuade you?” He gave the pointman the puppy dog eyes that Arthur was ashamed to admit actually worked more often than not. This, however, was distinctly not one of those times.
“No, just no. It's utterly impractical, entirely unsuitable. I'm not saying your grandmother didn't have taste, far from it, I'm sure it would look wonderful on a woman, but in case it escaped your attention, I am not a woman,” he ignored Eames' muttered, I can assure you, love, I had noticed, “and as much as I have no problem being in touch with my feminine side, this is taking it too far. Also, I hardly think I need to point out the fact it was made for a considerably smaller person and so probably wouldn't fit me anyway, so no, you distinctly can't persuade me.” Arthur paused to take a breath, noticing by the end of his rant the grin starting to spread across Eames' face.
The forger shrugged nonchalantly, “Well, at least I can truthfully tell mother I tried.”
Wait... “What?”
“First rule of family diplomacy, always blame the other party,” not a rule Arthur had himself heard of before, but then his experience of family diplomacy had up until now been limited to knowing when to duck, so he was willing to give Eames the benefit of the doubt on this one. “Mother is far too polite to actually take it out on you or even try to brow beat you into submission, so it'll be a safe bet. If I just hadn't asked I'd never have heard the end of it.”
“You couldn't just lie to her? It's not like you lack the practice,” Arthur tried for exasperated, but he suspect that a bit too much amusement may be creeping in for Eames to be in any way to be chastised.
“Alas, my mother has the unfortunate ability to be able to see through my lies with an uncanny accuracy. It's quite distressing really, although not nearly as distressing as the fact you seem to have picked up the skill as well. I'm beginning to feel I'm loosing my touch.” He didn't particularly look distressed, Arthur couldn't help but note.
Arthur snorted, “So I'm your alibi.”
“Essentially darling? Yes.” Eames carefully moved forward to remove the bread knife which Arthur had in fact completely forgotten he was holding, placing his hands carefully around the slender waist in front of him as he spoke.
“The things I do for you,” Arthur muttered in resignation, though he can't keep the smirk off his face, which only grew wider when Eames gave him a wide, genuine smile, a single expression that showed his affection far more deeply than words ever could.
++++
Eventually they settled on matching rings, an elegant, abstract motive of two snakes, one platinum, one white gold, entwined together, custom-made to fit from a small independent jewellers in Paris.
If there was going to be any sort of proper proposal, it really was now or never. So as Arthur removed the small boxes from the packaging once they been to pick them up, he grabbed the one marked E and opened it up towards the man in question. He briefly considered getting down on one knee but that probably would have been taking it too far, “James Daniel Godfrey Lewis Eames, will you do me the honour of becoming my husband?”
He did, he'd admit, feel faintly ridiculous doing so, given that they'd just bought the rings together, but rather than the teasing response he'd expected and probably deserved, Eames merely reached past him to take then other box and hold it out in a mirror, “Only if you, Arthur Jacob Miller, would do me the honour of becoming the same.”
It was, as proposals go, somewhat outside of the traditional, possibly bordering on the faintly ridiculous but then, Arthur reflected later, after they'd properly celebrated their first moments as an officially engaged couple, that probably made it reflective of much of their relationship.
++++
Step 1 - Meet the family
Placing meeting Eames' family as step one had been a mistake, a moment of madness when really, as far as Arthur was concerned, that particular step could end up as Step 3,4 or even, preferably, well after step 5.
It wasn't that they were immensely rich, after all, Arthur himself could count millions to his own name-- well, names-- thanks to careful investments over the years of his illegally acquired funds. It wasn't even that they could claim a family name going back centuries either with the no doubt effortless manners of the upper classes. Interactions over the years with their various clients and marks had already done much to puncture any sort of perceived mystique he may have had about those born into wealth and riches.
No, it was more the fact that they were Eames' family, that despite the amount he liked to complain about them, the forger did actually put a lot of stock in their views and Arthur would hate to inadvertently become a wedge between that should they, for some reason, not approve.
Somehow however, the mere fact that he'd decided, in a moment of folly, to place this as step 1 seemed to have ensured that fate conspired against him to ensure that he did actually do it in that order.
It was Eames' mother’s sixtieth birthday, an occasion that she, according to the man in question, was very insistent that her son attend. She had also, allegedly, insisted that he bring along “that nice young American man” she'd been hearing so much about, although when Arthur had enquired exactly from who she had been hearing these things, Eames was strangely silent.
In any case, that was how he found himself pulling up outside the stately manor house located deep in the Hertfordshire countryside that was the Eames family estate. The house was, as manor houses went, actually relatively modest in size, an elegant two story Tudor affair, it's T-shaped structure surrounded by large landscaped gardens, a later addition but one designed to off-set the period features perfectly. The gardens were, according to the sign near the entrance, some of the best preserved in Britain and open to the public to visit for only '£5 Adults and £3.50 Children and Seniors, Weddings and Functions welcome'. This civic minded sharing of national heritage apparently did not extend to the house itself, with the lawn-area in the immediate vicinity of the house clearly marked off as Private.
Despite the trappings of tourism, it was still an impressive sight and one that Arthur couldn't help but stare at slightly as he made his way out the car towards the door. Eames paid no notice to this, seemingly more concerned with glaring at the large Mercedes SUV which he'd chosen to park next to, muttering something about 'bloody Chelsea tractors' as he did so, which Arthur thought was a bit rich given that they owned a wealth of Jaguars, Lotus' and Aston Martin's spread over four continents.
Eames clearly saw his raised eyebrow, because he responded “He lives in the bloody centre of London, the sheer unnecessary vulgarity of a 4x4 is ridiculous. Frankly it's painful knowing I'm related to someone with so little taste.”
That drew an almost involuntary smirk to Arthur's lips, “Oh, so it runs in the family then.” Because a man who abused tweed and paisley on regular occasions really didn't have any room to comment about anyone else's taste.
That earned the pointman an inevitable glare, although if Eames was going to give him openings like that, he could hardly complain when Arthur took them. “I'm ignoring you and all your aspersions as to my sartorial tastes,” he sniffed.
The forger turned his back on him and rang the large cast iron bell hanging next to the oak-framed entrance. The door was opened five minutes later by a man who could only be Eames' brother. He looked for all the world like Arthur could imagine an older version of the forger looking, at least if he forgot to do any exercise between now an then, with greying temples and a developing paunch which spoke of a considerably more sedentary lifestyle than that of his younger brother.
The man gave a smile that didn't quite meet his eyes when he saw who it was, reaching out to clasp his brother's arm in a rough handshake, “James, glad you could make it.” Even with Arthur's admittedly limited ability to read people, who could hear the edge to the greeting.
“Richard, how's the family?” Eames returned the greeting boisterously but his grin was a familiar one, sharp and shark-like, like a predator toying with its prey. It was one Arthur had seen turned against marks all too often.
Richard must have felt it too, because he shifted uncomfortably, waving the question away with a muttered, “Same old, same old.”
He moved his attention towards Arthur and gave him what the pointman guessed was meant to be a welcoming smile holding out his hand in that stiff rather British manner, “I take it you're my brother's friend, I'm Richard.” There was a slight pause between 'brother' and 'friend' as if he wasn't entirely certain what was the correct term, but the concern appeared more linguistic than anything, since he otherwise didn't appear to be particularly concerned that Eames had turned up with a male rather than female 'friend' in tow.
“Arthur,” he returned the handshake. It was, as expected, one of those overly firm handshakes, one which transformed a simple greeting in a battled for dominance whereby the instigator was determined to make the other participant blink first. For some reason men with testosterone issues always seemed to believe that the pointman would be an easy target for this sort of thing, a mistake they rarely made twice. There was definitely a smirk of Eames' lips at the inevitable wince on his brother's face when Arthur choose to return the pressure in equal measures.
“Well, excellent, you all know each other now, mind if we get in out of the draft?” Eames casually strode past his brother and into the house, his small hold-all slung casually over his shoulder, looking for all the world like he owned the place, although the fact he'd grown up there probably came a good second-best on that scale. Arthur rolled his eyes before hefting his own bag, he considered briefly arguing against his partner's presumptuous manner, but the inevitable British drizzle which was starting to blanket the countryside made him think that the man probably did have a point.
The house, he noticed as soon as he stepped in, was as grand on the inside at the outside. The entranceway lead into a large, sumptuous, wood-panelled hallway complete with inevitable family portraits over the ages. Arthur paused to study a couple of them, trying to date them based on clothing and hairstyles.
Eames noticed, because he took a few steps back to drop a hand, lightly around Arthur's waist, kindly ignoring the reflexive tensing as he did so. “Oh no, first we drop our bags off in my room, then I'll give you the full guide tour of the place. We have some magnificent paintings in the Grand Hall I think you'll adore far more than these stuffy old things.”
All too aware of the presence of Eames' brother, Arthur pulled himself away from the other man's grasp with a, hopefully, disguised level of reluctance, “Is that so? And what makes you quite so sure of that?”
“Let's just say I am beginning to become well-acquainted with your tastes.” The look the forger gave him clearly indicated he wasn't just talking about paintings, “But, as you so often like to remind me, work first, pleasure later.”
Arthur narrowed his eyes, but before he could reply Richard interrupted them with a slight cough, “By the way James, mother says you're of course welcome to sleep in your old room if you don't think the bed will be too small, it's all laid out, but otherwise you can push the twin beds together in the White Room. However, there are no spare double mattresses since Uncle Tom and Aunty Eileen will be staying over tomorrow night.”
“We're not sleeping on twins again,” Arthur said firmly, the last time had been an uncomfortable night to say the least and had involved both of them, separately and jointly, half way falling down the join between the beds.
“Don't worry, we've slept on smaller doubles than the one in my old room, although the concern is of course touching. Where is mother anyway?”
“Gone riding with Gerald,” the way Richard said the name clearly indicated his lack of approval, another small piece of family history that Arthur was not privy too, “as well as Susan and the kids, they'll be back in a couple of hours, Emily on the other hand has been held up at work, so we probably shouldn't expect her till this evening.”
It was clear that Eames didn't share his brother's disapproval of Gerald, whoever he was, because he grinned widely at the news in a manner which was not anywhere near decent, “Still keeping the old boy around then is she? Good on her.” He was already heading up the stairs, neatly cutting off any rejoinder his brother might have and leaving Arthur to do little more but shrug and follow. He was in no doubt that he'd get to meet the mysterious Gerald soon enough.
++++
“James, darling, you made it!” The calm of the large kitchen, the most lived-in room of the house by the look of it, was shattered by the arrival of what seemed like a whole herd of Jack Russells and bundled up owners.
Eames' mother, at least Arthur guessed that was who she was by the way she had greeted him, was an elegant middle aged woman, looking closer to fifty than the sixty he knew her to be, with greying hair and aristocratic but kindly, motherly, features. Following closely behind, taking care not to trip over the dogs winding their way around their ankles, was a large, bluff man of a similar age, the infamous Gerald if Eames' greeting was anything to go by, and a younger waifish blond woman herding in two boys as they fought over access to some sort of game system. Susan no doubt, and the nephews that he occasionally heard Eames cursing the existence of, usually when it came to their birthdays and he had to remember to send them a card.
The whole scene was chaotic and disorganised, with dogs everywhere, greetings and well-wishes being exchanged, and Eames, of course, in the centre of all of it, in his element, offering kisses and compliments to the various parties. Arthur didn't think he'd ever felt more out of place, standing awkwardly to the side of the whole tableau, a pair of puppies sniffing all around his legs. He wondered briefly if they'd even notice if he slipped quietly out the side door.
Unfortunately for his plans of escape, Eames had actually noticed his discomfort because he disengaged himself from attempts to communicate with his nephews, who, as far as Arthur could tell, had a vocabulary entirely limited to grunts and unintelligible mumbles, and moved over to grab his arm and actively drag him into the fray. Bastard.
“Mother, I'd like you to meet my partner, Arthur,” it was one of the first time they'd used the term and not meant in the strictly business sense, it was strange, in all the best ways, and no doubt something Arthur was going to have to get used to, because there was no way Arthur was referring to Eames as his husband or vice versa.. “Arthur, please meet my mother, The Right Honourable The Dowager Lady Lexinton.” The name difference threw him slightly, expecting to hear here introduced as Lady Eames, but of course, as Eames had oh so painfully explained to him, despite what American films would have you believe, that was not, in fact, the correct form of address.
“It's a pleasure to meet you, Your Ladyship,” he held out his hand formally, a stab in the dark at, hopefully, the right thing to call the widowed wife of a Baron.
He needn't have worried, when she ignored the hand, and dragged him into a hug instead, planting a large kiss on the cheek as she did so, “Please, Arthur, call me Lucy, Your Ladyship sounds so formal.” She pulled back slightly, leaving Arthur feeling slightly shell-shocked over the intensity of the greeting.
“Thank you, ma'am, I mean, Lucy.” He corrected himself quickly at her glare and was rewarded with a wide, welcoming and highly familiar smile. Maybe this wouldn't be quite so bad after all.
“It's lovely to finally meet you. James has told me so much about you.” Had he now?. Arthur glanced towards the man in question and noticed that Eames did, at least, have the good grace to look somewhat sheepish. “Now, I hope James has been a good host and given your the tour of the place? You must see the Bacon's if he hasn't shown you already, my late husband acquired them back in his youth.”
“And then proceeded to give us all childhood trauma by hanging them up in the Grand Hall.” Eames muttered, having made very clear over various points his dislike of Francis Bacon's work and his inability to comprehend Arthur's attraction to them. Arthur tended to ignored him when he got onto this point, since he was clearly in error.
“Yes, thank you, Ea... James was nice enough to give me the grand tour,” among other things, he could feel his ears colouring slightly at some of the suggestions Eames had made to how he could truly scandalise his ancestors whilst they were observing the particularly disapproving stares emanating from some of the old portraits. Thankfully Eames' mother was polite enough to ignore it, instead releasing him and going to put away the various coats and hats they were still wearing once they'd come in.
She continued to fire questions at him at an impressive speed as she did so, in between Eames introducing him to the rest of the family, Gerald, the ex-army Colonel with whom his mother was apparently stepping out with, Susan, his brother's wife and the current Lady Lexinton or so she made sure to inform him, and his two nephews, Roger and Tom, or maybe Tom and Roger, Arthur wasn't quite sure which and neither of them felt fit to communicate the difference to him.
It was, if Arthur was being honest, all quite overwhelming. But it was worth it for the wide grin Eames was giving him and the slight shake of his head to indicate that this was pretty much typically behaviour to be expected.
Arthur, it appeared, was now firmly indoctrinated into the family, which was good since there was no way that Eames was being introduced to the pointman's own. In fact his own family only came up once over their stay, during a conversation in the evening as they lay entwined in Eames' childhood, or more apparently teenage, bed, with the forger tracing patterns on his chest with his fingers.
“My mother adores you,” Eames started without preamble, a contented smile on his face, “I think she'd rather have you as a son than me.”
Arthur shrugged, “I'm sure she was just being polite.”
He could feel more than hear his lover laugh at that, a low rumble that sent vibrations through both of them, “Trust me love, you should have seen how she was when she first met Susan, I've never seen two people insult each other so thoroughly using only compliments. No, there's nothing for it, my mother is completely besotted with you. Of course I can hardly blame her, since I seem to be infected with a similar affliction.”
“More like she enjoyed using me to win at Bridge.” Arthur countered, but he couldn't keep the smile from spreading across his face.
“I should have known better than to let us draw randomly for pairs,” Eames agreed, moving up to press a contented kiss on Arthur's lips before settling back down, fingers starting up their previous pattern.
Arthur could feel them wander down some of the older scarring on his chest, mementos from his father, of broken glasses and cigarette ends. “Is there any of your family I could meet without wanting to cause grievous bodily harm to them?” he asked suddenly, careful to keep his voice neutral. Even so, Arthur couldn't help but tense, they'd never talked about his own family, never needed to, but he should have known it was inevitable the topic would come up, especially now.
He took a few moments to try and work out how to reply, how to encompass in words the multitude of feelings and family history. In the end he settled for a simple, “No, not really,” and hoped that Eames wouldn't press the issue.
He didn't. “Fair enough,” was all he said in reply, though if he arms then held Arthur a little tighter, neither of them pretended to notice.
++++
Step 2 - Break the news
Although Step1 was now clearly and firmly out of the way, Step 2 would no doubt need to start forthwith, certainly before they came to the end of their visit. If nothing else because Arthur was beginning to feel that Eames' mother, clearly the source of the forger's not inconsiderable powers of observation on human behaviour, was beginning to suspect something.
This was in fact confirmed the next morning. Arthur was inevitably up and wide awake by 7am, since his body had decided at some point in his early 20s that it hated him and that, irrespective of what time he actually made it to bed on any given day, it would be wide awake no later than 0700, local time, and usually earlier. This hadn't exactly been an issue when he was single, but since he had started sleeping with Eames, who could lie-in for England, it inevitably left him in the unenviable position of either lying awake with nothing to do whilst he waited for the forger to finally return to the land of the living or getting up on his own to get on with making breakfast and usually getting most of the way through the paper before the other man finally stirred.
Such was the case that morning, as he extracted himself from his partner's arms and, throwing on some clothes, wandered downstairs in search of the coffee he was certain than even in this most English of houses must be found somewhere.
“Good morning, Arthur,” Lucy Eames greeted him as he made his way into the kitchen, already washed and dressed and sipping a mug of tea whilst doing the cross-word from the Daily Telegraph.
Arthur cursed mentally. It wasn't that he wanted to avoid her, she seemed a genuinely nice person who had been more than welcoming to him, but Arthur was rarely at his best first thing in the morning, especially before he'd had his first cup of coffee, and things like mothers sitting in what he had assumed would be an empty kitchen casually reading a paper had a tendency of throwing him off guard.
“Uh... good morning,” his mind eventually supplied after a few seconds of trying to change gear.
“Did you sleep alright? I'm guessing James is still out for the count, but feel free to make yourself at home in the meantime, there's bread by the toaster, cereal in the cupboard and tea in the pot already made. I'll cook up some bacon and eggs once a few more people are up” Lucy, it appeared, was a morning person, which, were Arthur more awake, he would probably find amusing given how much Eames wasn't.
“I don't suppose you have any coffee?” He eventually asked once there was a pause in the various instructions to allow him to get a word in edgeways.
“Of course, dear, I should have realised. I never drink the stuff myself, but my children have gotten into the habit, so I always keep some around. The cafetiere is in the bottom drawer to the right of the Aga, and the coffee is in a tin in the door of the fridge, you can't miss it. You may as well make a whole pot, Emily will be up soon and I have no doubt she'll want some.” After rummaging around the cupboards for a few moments he managed to find the french press which was no doubt what she was referring to and they lapsed into companionable silence as Arthur got on with the business of coffee-making and Lucy turned back to her cross-word, occasionally reading out a clue in the hope that two brains offered a better chance of success than the one.
“Do you love my son?” The question was asked in the same tone that she'd just been asking him nine letters, first letter h, fourth letter b, A cradle of ashes set in the Hampshire countryside..
Despite, or maybe because, the question caught him from left field, he found himself answering, “Yes, yes I do,” with a heartfelt sincerity that surprised himself as much as anyone else.
Lucy smiled, a warm motherly smile that reminded Arthur of one of the few memories of his own mother before she died, “Have you told him yet?”
Arthur wasn't certain how to answer that one, because how could he admit out loud that he hadn't, that he'd been scared to put this into words in case the whole thing melted away once it had been brought out into the harsh light of day?
It seemed that his silence spoke volumes, because her smile turned sadder, and she leaned forward to clasp his hands, a gentle gesture which caught him by surprise as much as the others, “You should. I'm sure he knows already, I know he does, but it's important to put these things into words.”
She paused slightly, as if trying to decide whether to say the next words, before continuing in a slightly softer tone, “His, James', father loved him dearly but was never very good at expressing it either, he never could say to his son that he loved him. He died when James was only ten, and he grew up believing his father didn't love him, despite my attempts to assure him of the contrary. It wasn't not until he found his journals later in life did he realise how wrong he was. So please tell him! Especially if you're going to get married.” She said the final bit with a small, mischievous smile.
Arthur wasn't quite certain what to say to that, so his mind helpfully latched on to the last part of her speech. “So, he told you?” He couldn't help but actually wander when Eames had found the time to do so.
“He didn't need to, I do have eyes and neither of your have exactly been hiding your rings.” Arthur coloured slightly at that, because she was right, they had been distinctly lacking in subtlety. “And don't think I won't be having words with him about not telling me right away.” She said this last bit over his shoulder and he turned to spot Eames, hair still messed from sleep, standing sheepishly in the doorway.
“Sorry?” He offered, giving her a guilty little-boy smile, “I didn't want to take away from your big day.” Eames, it appeared, tried to used his smooth-talking skills as much on his family as anyone else. Unfortunately, his mother didn't seem particularly impressed by the excuse.
“Oh tosh, I couldn't think of a better birthday present.” She got up and kissed him on the cheek, “I am very happy for you love, both of you. Now, I have to go get ready, Gerald has promised to set up the clay pigeon shooting this afternoon, you are of course welcome to come if you want to, just make sure to drop him a note so he brings enough shot.”
“Well, that wasn't quite how I expected to break the news, I must admit,” Eames said ruefully once his mother had left the room, “Hmm, is that coffee I see in the pot? I must say, darling, I could get used to you making me coffee in the morning.” He changed the topic quickly, too quickly, and Arthur wondered exactly how much of the previous conversation he'd been privy too.
Still, he smirked and moved the cafetiere deftly away from Eames' grasp, pouring himself a cup, first before deigning to relinquish it “Don't get used to it, James. I made this for myself, the fact there is enough for you too is entirely incidental.”
“Please, Arthur, don't call me that.” Eames groaned on hearing his first name, “The only people who ever call me by my first name are my family.”
“Hmm, I thought that was the idea of marrying you, that I'd become part of the family.”
“Maybe blood relatives is a better way of putting it, and since I'm pretty certain that doing to them the various things I'd like to do to you would be somewhat illegal, I'd rather not have the association.” Eames gave him a smouldering look as he spoke, moving his body to pin Arthur against the kitchen counter.
Two could play at that game, and Arthur widened his stance slightly so that Eames' thigh to slip in between his legs. “Is that so? And what, exactly, are those things?”
“Why don't you come back to bed with me and I can show you.” The idea was more than slightly tempting, in fact it sounded like an excellent way to spend the morning. Especially, since, as they'd discovered, one of the joys of a large old house such as this one was thick stone walls and empty rooms either side.
++++
“I do love you, you know that,” Arthur spoke up suddenly as they lay in the afterglow. It had been bothering him since the conversation with Eames' mother earlier, the idea that Eames might not know that already or might not actually believe it. He'd always assured himself that whatever else, the forger clearly knew how he felt, a comfortable thought that allowed him to self-justify his cowardice when it came to saying the words. But that excuse didn't really hold water anymore.
The statement obviously caught his partner by surprise, because he sat up slightly, a bemused expression on his face. “What's brought all this about?”
“I just felt it needed to be said. I mean, we've been together for over five years now and we've never really spoken the words,” Arthur was babbling, he knew he was, but somehow he couldn't quite stop.
Eames shut him up with a kiss, “Thank you. I would say that I'm pretty hopelessly in love with you too.”
++++
pairing: Arthur/Eames
rating: PG-13
disclaimer: I own nothing, I'm just playing with them.
Warnings: Fluff, angst
Summary: Who would have thought getting married would be quite so complex a task?
Word count: 6581
Author's note: The marriage fic I have been promising for ages. 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 help has been very useful
Step 0 - Proposal
Arthur was going to get married. Well, technically not married, not unless the latest Marriage Equality Bill made it through Parliament before they got around to officially tying the knot. But then that seemed doubtful given the murmurings coming from the Lords. Irrespective of the name applied to it however, it was still a public lifelong commitment to the man he loved.
The concept was, frankly, terrifying. Oh, exhilarating too, but still enough to cause a deep thrill of panic whenever he actually stopped to think about what he was doing.
There was really only one way to deal with this, the same way he dealt with any sort of stress or anxiety - he made a list:
Step 0 - Proposal
Step 1* - Meet the family
Step 2* - Breaking the news to said family and friends
Step 3** - Planning the wedding
Step 4 - Stag night (or other suitable pre-marriage celebration)
Step 5 - Get married
* Note steps 1 and 2 may occur simultaneously or with considerable chronological overlap
** Step likely to take the most time and includes the sub-steps of finding a venue, arranging the flowers, sending out invitations, sourcing appropriate attire, sorting the wedding reception and so on.
Of course looking over the list, drawn from personal observations of friends - well, Dom and Mal- getting married and whichever romantic films he could bring himself to stand watching, it was apparent that they had already managed to miss Step 0. The 'proposal', such as it was, had been more a tacit agreement between the two of them to tie the knot, no rings or declarations of love attached.
It was not, all said, the most auspicious start to the proceedings.
Not that Arthur was particularly looking for a romantic declaration or a grand dramatic proposal made over a candlelit dinner or some other such shit. As comfortable as he was in his manhood, knowing twenty ways to kill a man with his bare hands tended to have that effect, that sort of thing would nonetheless been a little too far towards emasculating for his tastes. Although, that particular view may be the result of what Eames' liked to call his skeletal romance deficiency, or in other words, not having a romantic bone in his body.
Even so, Arthur couldn't help but feel that rings should be involved somewhere before they could really call this an engagement, even in the loosest sense of the term. In many ways it was surprising that Eames hadn't already raised the issue, especially since he seemed considerably more concerned about the traditionally romantic ways of doing things than Arthur.
The thought did bring him a moment of doubt that the suggestion of marriage had really just been a whim, a fleeting fancy that the forger was now regretting and was hoping would be quickly forgotten. As much as the idea gave him pause, he truly did hate the doubt and insecurities that still occasionally plagued him, the feeling that he was too damaged, too fucked up for anyone to truly want to spend their whole life with him. It was, he knew, or at least tried to convince himself, irrational, and he was not about to let it control his life.
Still, that meant it took him close to a week to draw up the courage to broach the topic, something that was not acceptable but probably better than the amount of time it has taken him to actually put into words his feelings for the man (five years, four months, twenty-two days and counting).
“We should buy rings,” he announced suddenly, because there was no realistic build-up you could have to that sort of statement. It's possible Arthur could have chosen a better moment than when Eames was half-way through his need-this-to-feel-human morning coffee but then he wouldn't have had the amusement of watching him half-choke on the beverage as he processed the question.
“Sorry, what?” Eames finally managed to get out and Arthur had to suppress a smirk at the somewhat pained expression on his face. Maybe it wasn't exactly fair to jump this on him before he'd properly joined the land of the living, though his sympathy may have been greater if Arthur hadn't been up a good two hours earlier sorting through files and doing preliminary research for their next job.
“Engagement rings,” Arthur explained, adding, because he could, “I understand it’s traditional for a couple to get them when planning to get married.”
Eames gave him a sharp grin, leaning back casually and gesturing with the spoon he had, up until now, been using to eat his cereal, “Only in certain countries, you can hardly take a limited western tradition and make sweeping generalisations about it like that.”
“Since we are both, last time I checked, from 'western' countries, I'd say it was probably still appropriate.” Arthur responded drily, but it was clear Eames was evading the question and he couldn't help but feel momentary panic that the forger really was reconsidering the whole option. “Unless, of course, you're having second thoughts?” Arthur tried to keep the question nonchalant, as if he really didn't care either way.
Something of his feelings must have shown on his face however, because a look of pure horror crossed the forger's face that would have been almost comical under any other circumstances. Eames, because he was Eames, covered it up quickly, but it had definitely been there.
“No, no, no! Arthur, nothing in the world will make me happier than declaring you my life-long partner in such a way that might be legally binding on those rare occasions we actually decided to use our given names and identities.” Which was, in fairness, rare. But there was no reason why they couldn't arrange for at least one or two of their clean identities to also end up in some sort of wedded bliss, it would certainly help when dealing with hospitals. After all, marriage certificates were, allegedly, one of Eames' speciality.
Still, it didn't answer the original question, “So what's the problem?”
Eames actually looked nervous, a sheepish sort of nervousness, but nervous nonetheless “Well you see, love, Arthur,” he quickly corrected himself and Arthur could feel his eyes narrow almost involuntarily, it was never a good sign when Eames started actively avoiding pet names, it meant he was trying to soften him up for something.
“When my grandmother died, she left me her engagement ring for when I 'found a nice girl', a family heirloom if you will, or possibly a consolation prize since my brother would be getting the title, estates and everything.” Eames was evading the question again, and Arthur raised his eyebrow in a way he was certain would communicate his growing impatience. Quite clearly reading the get on with it message, the forger drew pack to the issues at hand “Anyway, the point of course being, that mother would never let me hear the end of it if I gave you any other ring.”
There had to be more to it than that, or Eames wouldn't be looking so nervous. So, with not a small amount of dread, Arthur forced himself to ask, “What, exactly, does this ring look like?”
Eames grinned at him boyishly, jumping up suddenly, “Give us a sec, I'll get it for you.” Then he was off, no doubt to root around in the junk room of the Manchester flat that the forger liked to pretend was an office.
Arthur figured it would take him a good half an hour or so to find anything in there, so, unwilling to sit around doing nothing whist waiting upon his return, decided to take the opportunity to cut off what would be the last decent slice of bread before the crust. After all, if Eames was going to leave the table half way through breakfast, Arthur could hardly be held responsible for the consequences.
To his not inconsiderable surprise however, he was barely half way through slicing when Eames came back in with the ring. He'd obviously been thinking about this for a while if he found it that easily. For some reason that gave the point man a warm feeling, although that soon vanished once he took a good look at the thing. It somehow managed to be at once delicate and ostentatious, pretty and ugly in equal measures. It was a thin silver band, not only itself encrusted with small transparent diamonds, but set in its centre, proclaiming its wealth to the world, was a stone big enough to shake a stick at. “No, absolutely not, no.”
Undeterred, the Brit pulled it out of its box, moving to thread it onto Arthur's finger, a sincere, intense look on his face, although the slight crinkling of his lips indicated quite clearly that he was enjoying the situation far more than was good for him, “You know, I think it would actually look very fetching on you.”
Arthur moved his hand away quickly, brandishing the bread knife at him as he did, a last line of defence against the hideous monstrosity the man who claimed to be his lover was attempting to foster onto him, “I think you should remember who is currently holding a sharp implement.”
The forger sighed theatrically, “I really can't persuade you?” He gave the pointman the puppy dog eyes that Arthur was ashamed to admit actually worked more often than not. This, however, was distinctly not one of those times.
“No, just no. It's utterly impractical, entirely unsuitable. I'm not saying your grandmother didn't have taste, far from it, I'm sure it would look wonderful on a woman, but in case it escaped your attention, I am not a woman,” he ignored Eames' muttered, I can assure you, love, I had noticed, “and as much as I have no problem being in touch with my feminine side, this is taking it too far. Also, I hardly think I need to point out the fact it was made for a considerably smaller person and so probably wouldn't fit me anyway, so no, you distinctly can't persuade me.” Arthur paused to take a breath, noticing by the end of his rant the grin starting to spread across Eames' face.
The forger shrugged nonchalantly, “Well, at least I can truthfully tell mother I tried.”
Wait... “What?”
“First rule of family diplomacy, always blame the other party,” not a rule Arthur had himself heard of before, but then his experience of family diplomacy had up until now been limited to knowing when to duck, so he was willing to give Eames the benefit of the doubt on this one. “Mother is far too polite to actually take it out on you or even try to brow beat you into submission, so it'll be a safe bet. If I just hadn't asked I'd never have heard the end of it.”
“You couldn't just lie to her? It's not like you lack the practice,” Arthur tried for exasperated, but he suspect that a bit too much amusement may be creeping in for Eames to be in any way to be chastised.
“Alas, my mother has the unfortunate ability to be able to see through my lies with an uncanny accuracy. It's quite distressing really, although not nearly as distressing as the fact you seem to have picked up the skill as well. I'm beginning to feel I'm loosing my touch.” He didn't particularly look distressed, Arthur couldn't help but note.
Arthur snorted, “So I'm your alibi.”
“Essentially darling? Yes.” Eames carefully moved forward to remove the bread knife which Arthur had in fact completely forgotten he was holding, placing his hands carefully around the slender waist in front of him as he spoke.
“The things I do for you,” Arthur muttered in resignation, though he can't keep the smirk off his face, which only grew wider when Eames gave him a wide, genuine smile, a single expression that showed his affection far more deeply than words ever could.
++++
Eventually they settled on matching rings, an elegant, abstract motive of two snakes, one platinum, one white gold, entwined together, custom-made to fit from a small independent jewellers in Paris.
If there was going to be any sort of proper proposal, it really was now or never. So as Arthur removed the small boxes from the packaging once they been to pick them up, he grabbed the one marked E and opened it up towards the man in question. He briefly considered getting down on one knee but that probably would have been taking it too far, “James Daniel Godfrey Lewis Eames, will you do me the honour of becoming my husband?”
He did, he'd admit, feel faintly ridiculous doing so, given that they'd just bought the rings together, but rather than the teasing response he'd expected and probably deserved, Eames merely reached past him to take then other box and hold it out in a mirror, “Only if you, Arthur Jacob Miller, would do me the honour of becoming the same.”
It was, as proposals go, somewhat outside of the traditional, possibly bordering on the faintly ridiculous but then, Arthur reflected later, after they'd properly celebrated their first moments as an officially engaged couple, that probably made it reflective of much of their relationship.
++++
Step 1 - Meet the family
Placing meeting Eames' family as step one had been a mistake, a moment of madness when really, as far as Arthur was concerned, that particular step could end up as Step 3,4 or even, preferably, well after step 5.
It wasn't that they were immensely rich, after all, Arthur himself could count millions to his own name-- well, names-- thanks to careful investments over the years of his illegally acquired funds. It wasn't even that they could claim a family name going back centuries either with the no doubt effortless manners of the upper classes. Interactions over the years with their various clients and marks had already done much to puncture any sort of perceived mystique he may have had about those born into wealth and riches.
No, it was more the fact that they were Eames' family, that despite the amount he liked to complain about them, the forger did actually put a lot of stock in their views and Arthur would hate to inadvertently become a wedge between that should they, for some reason, not approve.
Somehow however, the mere fact that he'd decided, in a moment of folly, to place this as step 1 seemed to have ensured that fate conspired against him to ensure that he did actually do it in that order.
It was Eames' mother’s sixtieth birthday, an occasion that she, according to the man in question, was very insistent that her son attend. She had also, allegedly, insisted that he bring along “that nice young American man” she'd been hearing so much about, although when Arthur had enquired exactly from who she had been hearing these things, Eames was strangely silent.
In any case, that was how he found himself pulling up outside the stately manor house located deep in the Hertfordshire countryside that was the Eames family estate. The house was, as manor houses went, actually relatively modest in size, an elegant two story Tudor affair, it's T-shaped structure surrounded by large landscaped gardens, a later addition but one designed to off-set the period features perfectly. The gardens were, according to the sign near the entrance, some of the best preserved in Britain and open to the public to visit for only '£5 Adults and £3.50 Children and Seniors, Weddings and Functions welcome'. This civic minded sharing of national heritage apparently did not extend to the house itself, with the lawn-area in the immediate vicinity of the house clearly marked off as Private.
Despite the trappings of tourism, it was still an impressive sight and one that Arthur couldn't help but stare at slightly as he made his way out the car towards the door. Eames paid no notice to this, seemingly more concerned with glaring at the large Mercedes SUV which he'd chosen to park next to, muttering something about 'bloody Chelsea tractors' as he did so, which Arthur thought was a bit rich given that they owned a wealth of Jaguars, Lotus' and Aston Martin's spread over four continents.
Eames clearly saw his raised eyebrow, because he responded “He lives in the bloody centre of London, the sheer unnecessary vulgarity of a 4x4 is ridiculous. Frankly it's painful knowing I'm related to someone with so little taste.”
That drew an almost involuntary smirk to Arthur's lips, “Oh, so it runs in the family then.” Because a man who abused tweed and paisley on regular occasions really didn't have any room to comment about anyone else's taste.
That earned the pointman an inevitable glare, although if Eames was going to give him openings like that, he could hardly complain when Arthur took them. “I'm ignoring you and all your aspersions as to my sartorial tastes,” he sniffed.
The forger turned his back on him and rang the large cast iron bell hanging next to the oak-framed entrance. The door was opened five minutes later by a man who could only be Eames' brother. He looked for all the world like Arthur could imagine an older version of the forger looking, at least if he forgot to do any exercise between now an then, with greying temples and a developing paunch which spoke of a considerably more sedentary lifestyle than that of his younger brother.
The man gave a smile that didn't quite meet his eyes when he saw who it was, reaching out to clasp his brother's arm in a rough handshake, “James, glad you could make it.” Even with Arthur's admittedly limited ability to read people, who could hear the edge to the greeting.
“Richard, how's the family?” Eames returned the greeting boisterously but his grin was a familiar one, sharp and shark-like, like a predator toying with its prey. It was one Arthur had seen turned against marks all too often.
Richard must have felt it too, because he shifted uncomfortably, waving the question away with a muttered, “Same old, same old.”
He moved his attention towards Arthur and gave him what the pointman guessed was meant to be a welcoming smile holding out his hand in that stiff rather British manner, “I take it you're my brother's friend, I'm Richard.” There was a slight pause between 'brother' and 'friend' as if he wasn't entirely certain what was the correct term, but the concern appeared more linguistic than anything, since he otherwise didn't appear to be particularly concerned that Eames had turned up with a male rather than female 'friend' in tow.
“Arthur,” he returned the handshake. It was, as expected, one of those overly firm handshakes, one which transformed a simple greeting in a battled for dominance whereby the instigator was determined to make the other participant blink first. For some reason men with testosterone issues always seemed to believe that the pointman would be an easy target for this sort of thing, a mistake they rarely made twice. There was definitely a smirk of Eames' lips at the inevitable wince on his brother's face when Arthur choose to return the pressure in equal measures.
“Well, excellent, you all know each other now, mind if we get in out of the draft?” Eames casually strode past his brother and into the house, his small hold-all slung casually over his shoulder, looking for all the world like he owned the place, although the fact he'd grown up there probably came a good second-best on that scale. Arthur rolled his eyes before hefting his own bag, he considered briefly arguing against his partner's presumptuous manner, but the inevitable British drizzle which was starting to blanket the countryside made him think that the man probably did have a point.
The house, he noticed as soon as he stepped in, was as grand on the inside at the outside. The entranceway lead into a large, sumptuous, wood-panelled hallway complete with inevitable family portraits over the ages. Arthur paused to study a couple of them, trying to date them based on clothing and hairstyles.
Eames noticed, because he took a few steps back to drop a hand, lightly around Arthur's waist, kindly ignoring the reflexive tensing as he did so. “Oh no, first we drop our bags off in my room, then I'll give you the full guide tour of the place. We have some magnificent paintings in the Grand Hall I think you'll adore far more than these stuffy old things.”
All too aware of the presence of Eames' brother, Arthur pulled himself away from the other man's grasp with a, hopefully, disguised level of reluctance, “Is that so? And what makes you quite so sure of that?”
“Let's just say I am beginning to become well-acquainted with your tastes.” The look the forger gave him clearly indicated he wasn't just talking about paintings, “But, as you so often like to remind me, work first, pleasure later.”
Arthur narrowed his eyes, but before he could reply Richard interrupted them with a slight cough, “By the way James, mother says you're of course welcome to sleep in your old room if you don't think the bed will be too small, it's all laid out, but otherwise you can push the twin beds together in the White Room. However, there are no spare double mattresses since Uncle Tom and Aunty Eileen will be staying over tomorrow night.”
“We're not sleeping on twins again,” Arthur said firmly, the last time had been an uncomfortable night to say the least and had involved both of them, separately and jointly, half way falling down the join between the beds.
“Don't worry, we've slept on smaller doubles than the one in my old room, although the concern is of course touching. Where is mother anyway?”
“Gone riding with Gerald,” the way Richard said the name clearly indicated his lack of approval, another small piece of family history that Arthur was not privy too, “as well as Susan and the kids, they'll be back in a couple of hours, Emily on the other hand has been held up at work, so we probably shouldn't expect her till this evening.”
It was clear that Eames didn't share his brother's disapproval of Gerald, whoever he was, because he grinned widely at the news in a manner which was not anywhere near decent, “Still keeping the old boy around then is she? Good on her.” He was already heading up the stairs, neatly cutting off any rejoinder his brother might have and leaving Arthur to do little more but shrug and follow. He was in no doubt that he'd get to meet the mysterious Gerald soon enough.
++++
“James, darling, you made it!” The calm of the large kitchen, the most lived-in room of the house by the look of it, was shattered by the arrival of what seemed like a whole herd of Jack Russells and bundled up owners.
Eames' mother, at least Arthur guessed that was who she was by the way she had greeted him, was an elegant middle aged woman, looking closer to fifty than the sixty he knew her to be, with greying hair and aristocratic but kindly, motherly, features. Following closely behind, taking care not to trip over the dogs winding their way around their ankles, was a large, bluff man of a similar age, the infamous Gerald if Eames' greeting was anything to go by, and a younger waifish blond woman herding in two boys as they fought over access to some sort of game system. Susan no doubt, and the nephews that he occasionally heard Eames cursing the existence of, usually when it came to their birthdays and he had to remember to send them a card.
The whole scene was chaotic and disorganised, with dogs everywhere, greetings and well-wishes being exchanged, and Eames, of course, in the centre of all of it, in his element, offering kisses and compliments to the various parties. Arthur didn't think he'd ever felt more out of place, standing awkwardly to the side of the whole tableau, a pair of puppies sniffing all around his legs. He wondered briefly if they'd even notice if he slipped quietly out the side door.
Unfortunately for his plans of escape, Eames had actually noticed his discomfort because he disengaged himself from attempts to communicate with his nephews, who, as far as Arthur could tell, had a vocabulary entirely limited to grunts and unintelligible mumbles, and moved over to grab his arm and actively drag him into the fray. Bastard.
“Mother, I'd like you to meet my partner, Arthur,” it was one of the first time they'd used the term and not meant in the strictly business sense, it was strange, in all the best ways, and no doubt something Arthur was going to have to get used to, because there was no way Arthur was referring to Eames as his husband or vice versa.. “Arthur, please meet my mother, The Right Honourable The Dowager Lady Lexinton.” The name difference threw him slightly, expecting to hear here introduced as Lady Eames, but of course, as Eames had oh so painfully explained to him, despite what American films would have you believe, that was not, in fact, the correct form of address.
“It's a pleasure to meet you, Your Ladyship,” he held out his hand formally, a stab in the dark at, hopefully, the right thing to call the widowed wife of a Baron.
He needn't have worried, when she ignored the hand, and dragged him into a hug instead, planting a large kiss on the cheek as she did so, “Please, Arthur, call me Lucy, Your Ladyship sounds so formal.” She pulled back slightly, leaving Arthur feeling slightly shell-shocked over the intensity of the greeting.
“Thank you, ma'am, I mean, Lucy.” He corrected himself quickly at her glare and was rewarded with a wide, welcoming and highly familiar smile. Maybe this wouldn't be quite so bad after all.
“It's lovely to finally meet you. James has told me so much about you.” Had he now?. Arthur glanced towards the man in question and noticed that Eames did, at least, have the good grace to look somewhat sheepish. “Now, I hope James has been a good host and given your the tour of the place? You must see the Bacon's if he hasn't shown you already, my late husband acquired them back in his youth.”
“And then proceeded to give us all childhood trauma by hanging them up in the Grand Hall.” Eames muttered, having made very clear over various points his dislike of Francis Bacon's work and his inability to comprehend Arthur's attraction to them. Arthur tended to ignored him when he got onto this point, since he was clearly in error.
“Yes, thank you, Ea... James was nice enough to give me the grand tour,” among other things, he could feel his ears colouring slightly at some of the suggestions Eames had made to how he could truly scandalise his ancestors whilst they were observing the particularly disapproving stares emanating from some of the old portraits. Thankfully Eames' mother was polite enough to ignore it, instead releasing him and going to put away the various coats and hats they were still wearing once they'd come in.
She continued to fire questions at him at an impressive speed as she did so, in between Eames introducing him to the rest of the family, Gerald, the ex-army Colonel with whom his mother was apparently stepping out with, Susan, his brother's wife and the current Lady Lexinton or so she made sure to inform him, and his two nephews, Roger and Tom, or maybe Tom and Roger, Arthur wasn't quite sure which and neither of them felt fit to communicate the difference to him.
It was, if Arthur was being honest, all quite overwhelming. But it was worth it for the wide grin Eames was giving him and the slight shake of his head to indicate that this was pretty much typically behaviour to be expected.
Arthur, it appeared, was now firmly indoctrinated into the family, which was good since there was no way that Eames was being introduced to the pointman's own. In fact his own family only came up once over their stay, during a conversation in the evening as they lay entwined in Eames' childhood, or more apparently teenage, bed, with the forger tracing patterns on his chest with his fingers.
“My mother adores you,” Eames started without preamble, a contented smile on his face, “I think she'd rather have you as a son than me.”
Arthur shrugged, “I'm sure she was just being polite.”
He could feel more than hear his lover laugh at that, a low rumble that sent vibrations through both of them, “Trust me love, you should have seen how she was when she first met Susan, I've never seen two people insult each other so thoroughly using only compliments. No, there's nothing for it, my mother is completely besotted with you. Of course I can hardly blame her, since I seem to be infected with a similar affliction.”
“More like she enjoyed using me to win at Bridge.” Arthur countered, but he couldn't keep the smile from spreading across his face.
“I should have known better than to let us draw randomly for pairs,” Eames agreed, moving up to press a contented kiss on Arthur's lips before settling back down, fingers starting up their previous pattern.
Arthur could feel them wander down some of the older scarring on his chest, mementos from his father, of broken glasses and cigarette ends. “Is there any of your family I could meet without wanting to cause grievous bodily harm to them?” he asked suddenly, careful to keep his voice neutral. Even so, Arthur couldn't help but tense, they'd never talked about his own family, never needed to, but he should have known it was inevitable the topic would come up, especially now.
He took a few moments to try and work out how to reply, how to encompass in words the multitude of feelings and family history. In the end he settled for a simple, “No, not really,” and hoped that Eames wouldn't press the issue.
He didn't. “Fair enough,” was all he said in reply, though if he arms then held Arthur a little tighter, neither of them pretended to notice.
++++
Step 2 - Break the news
Although Step1 was now clearly and firmly out of the way, Step 2 would no doubt need to start forthwith, certainly before they came to the end of their visit. If nothing else because Arthur was beginning to feel that Eames' mother, clearly the source of the forger's not inconsiderable powers of observation on human behaviour, was beginning to suspect something.
This was in fact confirmed the next morning. Arthur was inevitably up and wide awake by 7am, since his body had decided at some point in his early 20s that it hated him and that, irrespective of what time he actually made it to bed on any given day, it would be wide awake no later than 0700, local time, and usually earlier. This hadn't exactly been an issue when he was single, but since he had started sleeping with Eames, who could lie-in for England, it inevitably left him in the unenviable position of either lying awake with nothing to do whilst he waited for the forger to finally return to the land of the living or getting up on his own to get on with making breakfast and usually getting most of the way through the paper before the other man finally stirred.
Such was the case that morning, as he extracted himself from his partner's arms and, throwing on some clothes, wandered downstairs in search of the coffee he was certain than even in this most English of houses must be found somewhere.
“Good morning, Arthur,” Lucy Eames greeted him as he made his way into the kitchen, already washed and dressed and sipping a mug of tea whilst doing the cross-word from the Daily Telegraph.
Arthur cursed mentally. It wasn't that he wanted to avoid her, she seemed a genuinely nice person who had been more than welcoming to him, but Arthur was rarely at his best first thing in the morning, especially before he'd had his first cup of coffee, and things like mothers sitting in what he had assumed would be an empty kitchen casually reading a paper had a tendency of throwing him off guard.
“Uh... good morning,” his mind eventually supplied after a few seconds of trying to change gear.
“Did you sleep alright? I'm guessing James is still out for the count, but feel free to make yourself at home in the meantime, there's bread by the toaster, cereal in the cupboard and tea in the pot already made. I'll cook up some bacon and eggs once a few more people are up” Lucy, it appeared, was a morning person, which, were Arthur more awake, he would probably find amusing given how much Eames wasn't.
“I don't suppose you have any coffee?” He eventually asked once there was a pause in the various instructions to allow him to get a word in edgeways.
“Of course, dear, I should have realised. I never drink the stuff myself, but my children have gotten into the habit, so I always keep some around. The cafetiere is in the bottom drawer to the right of the Aga, and the coffee is in a tin in the door of the fridge, you can't miss it. You may as well make a whole pot, Emily will be up soon and I have no doubt she'll want some.” After rummaging around the cupboards for a few moments he managed to find the french press which was no doubt what she was referring to and they lapsed into companionable silence as Arthur got on with the business of coffee-making and Lucy turned back to her cross-word, occasionally reading out a clue in the hope that two brains offered a better chance of success than the one.
“Do you love my son?” The question was asked in the same tone that she'd just been asking him nine letters, first letter h, fourth letter b, A cradle of ashes set in the Hampshire countryside..
Despite, or maybe because, the question caught him from left field, he found himself answering, “Yes, yes I do,” with a heartfelt sincerity that surprised himself as much as anyone else.
Lucy smiled, a warm motherly smile that reminded Arthur of one of the few memories of his own mother before she died, “Have you told him yet?”
Arthur wasn't certain how to answer that one, because how could he admit out loud that he hadn't, that he'd been scared to put this into words in case the whole thing melted away once it had been brought out into the harsh light of day?
It seemed that his silence spoke volumes, because her smile turned sadder, and she leaned forward to clasp his hands, a gentle gesture which caught him by surprise as much as the others, “You should. I'm sure he knows already, I know he does, but it's important to put these things into words.”
She paused slightly, as if trying to decide whether to say the next words, before continuing in a slightly softer tone, “His, James', father loved him dearly but was never very good at expressing it either, he never could say to his son that he loved him. He died when James was only ten, and he grew up believing his father didn't love him, despite my attempts to assure him of the contrary. It wasn't not until he found his journals later in life did he realise how wrong he was. So please tell him! Especially if you're going to get married.” She said the final bit with a small, mischievous smile.
Arthur wasn't quite certain what to say to that, so his mind helpfully latched on to the last part of her speech. “So, he told you?” He couldn't help but actually wander when Eames had found the time to do so.
“He didn't need to, I do have eyes and neither of your have exactly been hiding your rings.” Arthur coloured slightly at that, because she was right, they had been distinctly lacking in subtlety. “And don't think I won't be having words with him about not telling me right away.” She said this last bit over his shoulder and he turned to spot Eames, hair still messed from sleep, standing sheepishly in the doorway.
“Sorry?” He offered, giving her a guilty little-boy smile, “I didn't want to take away from your big day.” Eames, it appeared, tried to used his smooth-talking skills as much on his family as anyone else. Unfortunately, his mother didn't seem particularly impressed by the excuse.
“Oh tosh, I couldn't think of a better birthday present.” She got up and kissed him on the cheek, “I am very happy for you love, both of you. Now, I have to go get ready, Gerald has promised to set up the clay pigeon shooting this afternoon, you are of course welcome to come if you want to, just make sure to drop him a note so he brings enough shot.”
“Well, that wasn't quite how I expected to break the news, I must admit,” Eames said ruefully once his mother had left the room, “Hmm, is that coffee I see in the pot? I must say, darling, I could get used to you making me coffee in the morning.” He changed the topic quickly, too quickly, and Arthur wondered exactly how much of the previous conversation he'd been privy too.
Still, he smirked and moved the cafetiere deftly away from Eames' grasp, pouring himself a cup, first before deigning to relinquish it “Don't get used to it, James. I made this for myself, the fact there is enough for you too is entirely incidental.”
“Please, Arthur, don't call me that.” Eames groaned on hearing his first name, “The only people who ever call me by my first name are my family.”
“Hmm, I thought that was the idea of marrying you, that I'd become part of the family.”
“Maybe blood relatives is a better way of putting it, and since I'm pretty certain that doing to them the various things I'd like to do to you would be somewhat illegal, I'd rather not have the association.” Eames gave him a smouldering look as he spoke, moving his body to pin Arthur against the kitchen counter.
Two could play at that game, and Arthur widened his stance slightly so that Eames' thigh to slip in between his legs. “Is that so? And what, exactly, are those things?”
“Why don't you come back to bed with me and I can show you.” The idea was more than slightly tempting, in fact it sounded like an excellent way to spend the morning. Especially, since, as they'd discovered, one of the joys of a large old house such as this one was thick stone walls and empty rooms either side.
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“I do love you, you know that,” Arthur spoke up suddenly as they lay in the afterglow. It had been bothering him since the conversation with Eames' mother earlier, the idea that Eames might not know that already or might not actually believe it. He'd always assured himself that whatever else, the forger clearly knew how he felt, a comfortable thought that allowed him to self-justify his cowardice when it came to saying the words. But that excuse didn't really hold water anymore.
The statement obviously caught his partner by surprise, because he sat up slightly, a bemused expression on his face. “What's brought all this about?”
“I just felt it needed to be said. I mean, we've been together for over five years now and we've never really spoken the words,” Arthur was babbling, he knew he was, but somehow he couldn't quite stop.
Eames shut him up with a kiss, “Thank you. I would say that I'm pretty hopelessly in love with you too.”
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