Speak Now or Forever Hold Your Peace
Title : Speak Now or Forever Hold Your Peace
Summary : “You may kiss the bride.” Warm, soft lips descend on hers.
Rating : pg-13
Notes : Written for this inception_kink prompt. Three times the bridesmaid and once the bride.
Further Notes : I made one minor change and added an extra wedding.
four times the bridesmaid
i
She’s sixteen the first time someone asks her to be in their wedding party. It’s a favor she does begrudgingly.
A distant cousin, one she’s seen a total of five times in her life, is getting married and she needs one more person to fill the role of bridesmaid. Her third best friend had an emergency and she’s the only one who’s small enough to fit into the already tailored dress. Ariadne doesn’t talk to her mother for three weeks after learning she agreed to let her daughter participate in a wedding she doesn’t want to go to and walk down the aisle in the pale blue monstrosity.
Her face is painted on by the bride’s mother-in-law. She wears too much blush and eye shadow. Her full lips are doused with fire engine red lipstick and her hair is drowned in hairspray that holds her curls together. She has a headache before the ceremony even begins.
Her brother laughs when he sees her and tells her she looks like a baby prostitute. She’ll have to remember that the girl he brings to the ceremony isn’t his girlfriend. Ammunition like that is a gift.
If asked, she’ll swear the groomsman was at least seven feet tall. It’s a ridiculous sight in comparison to her mediocre five. She’s all but dragged down the aisle, feeling very much like a child like the entire time.
She swears she’ll never do it again. The humiliation isn’t worth it, even if the bride looks euphoric when she thanks her for stepping in.
ii
The second time she’s barely twenty four. It’s a mistake she vaguely remembers.
They’re in Vegas doing a job that reminds her a little too much of Ocean’s 11, if only because Eames keeps voicing that one thought over and over again. Their Danny Ocean, Cobb, is no longer with them, so Arthur assumes the position. Ariadne can’t help but think he works the role much better than Frank Sinatra ever did. He looks much better in a suit too. It’s only her third job, the second one where they’re employed by Saito.
I’m willing to bet he’s out to take over the world, Eames comments.
They don’t question his request however. It’s not nearly as dangerous as the first, but it’s a risk. Going after a casino owner was a gamble. That’s Yusuf’s one and only pun. She’s the only one who laughs at the attempt.
It’s a high stakes plan that involves a lot of charm, from Arthur. He’s just the type the P.A of the casino owner likes. Eames ends up hanging from the side of a building and Ariadne is a less than perfect lookout for the PASIV and security. It’s not dangerous like Inception, but it’s difficult. When they do pull it off successfully, barely so, Yusuf proposes drinking as a stress reliever. He and Eames hit the bar. They hit it hard.
You might not want to join them, Arthur advises, breath ticking the shell of her ear as he leans over to her. It’s decided then and there. She needs a drink. She and Arthur have been doing an awkward dance around each other since she agreed to work with him, with them, and his close proximity drives her to the brink of insanity. If only because there’s nothing she can do to stop him smiling at her or even talking to her.
Many drinks and one blurry hour later, they’re piled into a Las Vegas wedding chapel. Yusuf stands at the altar wearing a proud, if not drunk, grin and his bride is tremendously happy. She’s three sheets to the wind herself. Eames is passed out in one of the pews, curled into a ball protecting himself from unknown dangers. Ariadne is only halfway to being drunk herself and being the only female available she stands next to the bride, body drooping just slightly. Arthur stands next to Yusuf, smiling. He’s the only one not intoxicated to the point of madness and the sight of his team, especially that of Eames, has him grinning.
It’s not a touching wedding by any means. Ariadne holds the bouquet of plastic flowers, chewing on the worn neckline of her t-shirt, watching Arthur the entire time, while Yusuf’s bride kisses him. She tries to remember what Arthur’s lips feel like. She can't.
Be careful, you could be next, Arthur whispers in her ear when he escorts her down the aisle, his strong hands holding her upright.
You wouldn’t let that happen, would you? Her voice is heavy, her breath laced with the whiskey she bummed off Eames.
No, no I wouldn’t, Arthur shakes his head. She's too far gone to blush because of his nearness, or even notice the softness he regards her with. She’s definitely too far gone too remember that Eames is still in the pew.
Ariadne doesn’t remember any of it happening. It’s only when Eames shows up at the hotel room, hung over and with a back ache, does Arthur regale them with the tale of Yusuf’s drunken nuptials with a smile so wide, Ariadne swears it hurts her eyes.
iii
The third time, she’s just one month shy of twenty seven. This wedding ends in divorce. Abruptly.
She’s an architect in both dreams and the real world. Saito has sunken his claws into her and refuses to relinquish his hold. Ariadne can’t say she minds. She’s never out of work.
They’re in L.A visiting Cobb, just a minor delay in the trip they’re making to New York from Russia. Somehow they’ve become Saito’s people. They’re never out of work. Ariadne is beginning to believe that Saito really is trying to take over the world.
When Phillipa’s eyes fall on Eames, she decides right then that he’s the prince she’s been waiting for. Cobb looks horrified and Ariadne elbows Yusuf who snorts loudly. Arthur has enough sense to scurry off with James before he says anything about Eames that will hurt Phillipa’s delicate sensibilities.
Eames, a prince! He’s all but rolling on the ground.
Phillipa smiles up at Eames, her tiny head tilted all the way back so she can see him. Marry me. It’s a demand, not a request.
It would be an honor, Eames bends on one knee and kisses her tiny hand. Ariadne, at the age of eighty will look back and say that this moment is the most adorable thing she’s ever seen. Eames, the gentle giant, holding Phillipa’s hand in his, dwarfing hers really, and Phillipa giggling madly.
Phillipa doesn’t wait for her father’s approval. She marches off to get ready for her wedding, dragging Ariadne along behind her.
They all humor her game if only because she has a temper to match that of her mother's.
The places are set not an hour later. Araidne smiles down at Phillipa fixing the veil, a lace tablecloth, over her cherubic face. She can’t help but think it should be Mal who’s playing pretend with her. When the girl tugs at her hand impatiently, Ariadne picks up her own bouquet of wild flowers, mostly weeds, James picked lazily. This time she’s not in jeans and an old t-shirt. She’s wearing a smart skirt suit. It’s the only nice thing she has in her small suitcase. Cobb is ready to walk, carry, his daughter down the make shift aisle Yusuf hurriedly put together and Arthur is waiting for her at the back. He’s the best man, she’s the maid of honor. Eames stands under the tree house wearing shorts, that show off tanned muscular legs, and a white shirt.
Dom is very close to shooting himself in the head, Arthur whispers to her, linking her arm through his.
I can only imagine, Ariadne laughs when James presses play on the tiny pink radio he’s carrying. He and Yusuf fill the roles of guests at the wedding. Arthur’s fingers don’t relinquish the hold they have on her smaller ones. He makes the walk agonizingly slow, thumb stroking the back of her hand.
She wants to squeeze her eyes shut and enjoy the sensations of his hands. Those strong hands. The very hands that taught her how to shoot a rifle without jumping. The hands that cradled her face comfortingly when Eames got run over by a 7 ton truck in dream space, in Jakarta. The hands that slipped tantalizingly slow up the back of her shirt in Columbia, teasing her spine with a lone finger while his mouth scattered kisses on every inch of bare skin he could find, not a month ago. She doesn’t squeeze her eyes shut, however. They part at the altar, a spot of grass under the tree house, and Ariadne watches Cobb all but sprint down the aisle with Phillipa. Not only is he the father of the bride, but he’s also the minister presiding over the ceremony.
They exchange vows. Eames promises to always buy her push pop rings, he has no idea what those are he confesses later, and Phillipa promises to never eat all the cookies without sharing at least one with him first. Eames thinks it’s a fair exchange. Ariadne hides a smile behind her fist. Cobb rolls his eyes. Yusuf thinks she should share more than one. James agrees. Arthur doesn’t take his eyes off her and Araidne flushes red. She’ll never grow accustomed to the intensity in his eyes.
When Eames lifts her veil and presses a kiss to her cheek that’s covered with blush - Ariadne couldn't pry her hands from the thing-, Phillipa frowns, pushing him away as best she can with her small hands.
What’s the matter pet? Eames kneels before her.
I don’t want to be married to you anymore. You hurt me. She rubs her cheek sorely. Eames runs his fingers over his own stubble. I don’t like you anymore.
At least Yusuf can safely say he’s not the one with the shortest marriage now, Arthur smirks.
Let’s not call this a marriage, Cobb frowns and glares at the same time. It’s a sight that stops them all for a moment.
Phillipa turns to Ariadne instantly. It’s your turn now. You and Uncle Arthur have to get married. Big men have to marry tiny ladies to protect them.
Ariadne is at a temporary loss for words and Arthur’s eyes bore into her skin. Well if that’s the case, I guess I’ll marry Eames too. He’s bigger than Uncle Arthur. He can protect me better.
She cocks her head to side, thinking for a second, and then shakes her head no. Uncle Arthur is taller. Phillipa says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and Ariadne should know it too. And Eames is my Prince. Not yours. That’s the end of the discussion.
Phillipa runs off, tossing her veil over her head. She wants a snack. James runs after her, screaming at her to leave his ice cream alone. Cobb sighs heavily, following after them to intervene in whatever scuffle might erupt between the siblings. Eames disappears with Yusuf almost instantly and Ariadne is left standing with Arthur, still holding her bouquet.
He presses a hand to her lower back, ushering her towards the house. She feels the warmth of his palm against the gauzy material of her jacket and her stomach tightens. One month since that night in Columbia and she still isn’t used to the feeling of being with him.
I’d kill you before I let you marry Eames. I don’t think my guilty conscience would leave me be after something like that.
iv
The fourth time someone asks her to be in their wedding party, she can’t say no. She’s twenty eight years and 6 months old. This time it’s true love.
She’s said no to being in wedding parties before. She’d said no to friends she’d long lost contact with, who called her out of the blue, but this was different. Her brother’s wedding wasn’t something she could miss. Ariadne had friends, ones she no longer knew, but her brother’s really the only person she’d call her best friend. She’d lost contact with most of her family, but not him. Never him.
You can’t go, Arthur tells her when she announces that she’s the Best Man in the ceremony.
What do you mean I can’t go? I have to. Her lips are set in a firm line and she stares at him sternly.
After the last job, they’re still looking for us. It’s in our best interest to hide. You can’t go.
You can’t tell me what to do, Arthur! She’s well aware of the fact that she sounds all of sixteen at the moment.
In this instance, yes I can. You’re not going. His voice holds a tone of finality and Ariadne glares.
The novelty of being with Arthur wears thin quickly. The tug of pleasure she got when he tried to protect her was long gone. One year and eight months of being together, five years and six months of working together, and he still doesn’t think she can make her own decisions. The last job was nothing short of a disaster, but she wouldn’t let it keep her from seeing her brother get married. She’s nothing if not headstrong.
She packs a bag and pulls on her raincoat. Arthur is in the kitchen, elbow deep in cleaning solvent. Ariadne clears her throat loudly. I’m leaving, She announces. She hears the faint whisper of fuck before she’s out the door.
It takes two layover flights from Kazakhstan and a train to get her to New Hampshire. When she does get there, she’s not so sure it’s her smartest idea. Her childhood home is packed to the brim with family members she barely remembers and she wants to erase the last twenty four hours and go back to the cramped hole in the wall in Kazakhstan where she left Arthur. All eyes are on her when she enters and it feels like a bad dream.
And here I was thinking you’d never leave Paris for my little wedding.
She drops her bag and launches herself at her brother. She can’t tell him that just thirty six hours before she was fleeing for her life, not in Paris, but in Mongolia, but she can hug him. Hugging him will help her forget that she left Arthur behind, stupidly.
Hugging him or her mother and father doesn’t help her forget Arthur. She listens to Andrew’s friends talk about his pending bachelor party and her mind wanders. Ariadne wonders if he misses her or if he’s really angry. She wonders if he’s angry enough to make that vein in his forehead pop.
Her family asks about her life in Paris and she lies. She’s gotten quite good at it. She lies about the people she knows and she lies about a pub she frequents. She vaguely recalls the name of one from her University days. She doesn’t talk about Yusuf and his affinity for terrible puns and his love of cats. She doesn’t talk about Eames and his playboy ways. She doesn’t mention Arthur because they’ll know. They’ll know that he’s the one she loves. She lets them believe that the Ariadne they once knew is still there. They don’t have to know about her new career.
She knows how to get into contact with him, to find him, but she doesn’t touch her phone. It’s the last weekend she has with the people she once knew.
Ariadne stands next to her brother at the altar whilst his bride walks down the aisle. Her mother glances at the two of them disapprovingly during the bride’s march. She still doesn’t get why her daughter is Andrew’s Best Man rather than one of his Darthmouth friends. It makes it all worth it for Ariadne.
Nearly every man she sees at the reception makes Ariadne double take. Every cinched tie and perfectly place tie clip makes her stop, if just for a moment. She fiddles with the flower in the lapel of her jacket and drinks the expensive wine at the open bar. She dances with her father and chats idly with cousins she recalls vaguely. She waits impatiently for the evening to be over. She’ll pack her bag and visit Eames in London. It’s the only real plan her mind can come up with that doesn’t involve Arthur in any way.
The guests are long gone, her parents have retreated inside the house, seeking solace from the heat and she sits staring at the nothingness. She’ll leave in the morning. She’ll make up an excellent excuse about the firm in Paris wanting her back before the week is up and she’ll leave. She’ll run because there are men after her. Men, she’s surprised haven’t found her yet.
As far as being the Best Man goes, I’d say you did a better job than I did at Dom and Mal’s wedding. Arthur stands behind the chair she’s sitting in, leaning against a tree, arms folded.
She stands, clutching her beer tightly. I find that incredibly difficult to believe. They’re in similar states of undress. Their white shirts are rolled up to their elbows and their buttons are undone, exposing long necks. How long have you been here?
One day, he replies, pushing away from the tree, I had to tie up some loose ends. You shouldn’t have left like that.
And you shouldn’t have been an ass about me wanting to come ho … here. She says it frankly and it entices a grin from Arthur. It’s wide, boyish and makes him look younger than his years.
Did you get what you came for? He’s before her now, coaxing the bottle of beer out of her fingers.
Ariadne nods, watching his lips enclose around the tip of the bottle, his tongue reaching forward to secure any liquid from falling. I’m ready to go home.
She needs the trip to New Hampshire to remind her, reinforce the idea, that home isn’t the house where her father marked her growing height on the wall. She needs to see her brother, her best friend, one last time for her to really know that home is wherever work and Arthur take her.
once the bride
She stands facing her groom. He’s all smiles and she’s the picture perfect bride. She’s ecstatic and she knows it shows. Everyone’s eyes are on them and she’s not nervous. No, she’s ready for this. She wears a pristine white lace gown that looks like it’s sewed by cartoon animals. It’s a representation of a humongous lie, she thinks. It should have been at least off white. No matter, she listens to her groom’s vows. They’re almost poetic. Even Keats would have a difficult time topping him.
Just out of the corner of her eyes, Ariadne can see Arthur sitting amongst the guests. He slips into the chapel silently, unnoticed by anyone else. He’s just another face in the crowd. She can always find him though. His eyes are set solely on her and she wills herself not to react.
“Speak now or forever hold your peace.” The loud voice of the priest makes her jump. Shit.
That wasn’t supposed to be in there. That was all Arthur’s fault. She can see the smirk tugging at his lips and she wants to slap it right off. When no one speaks up, Arthur opens and closes his mouth a few times, the priest continues.
“You may kiss the bride.” Warm, soft lips descend on hers.
The reception is well under way when Ariadne excuses herself, prying her groom’s hand off hers, and runs to her dressing room. She hears the door close behind her not a moment later.
She hears the click of the lock and he closes the space between them quickly. A shadow passes over his countenance when he looks down at her hands. He holds her left hand up and pulls the diamond ring off her finger. “Arthur!”
“It’s ugly,” he shrugs easily, kicking it away with the tip of his shoe.
“Is not.” She rebuts childishly. “Did you get it?”
Arthur nods, lifting her leg, resting it on the soft satin cushion of the nearest chair. His gloved hand trails from her ankle, up to her knee and onto her thigh. He’s on his knees before her, her dress is hiked up to her waist, and she can feel his breath on her thigh. Her hands grab the edges of the table she’s pressed tightly against. She can feel the crack of her nails and the fine hairs on her thigh stand on end.
“Just get the damn gun,” She growls when Arthur presses a kiss against her skin, his tongue coming out to play for just a moment, removing the Beretta from its holster around her thigh. She doesn’t bother to ask why he couldn’t just use his own gun.
Arthur removes the silencer from his jacket pocket and screws it on quickly. “Is this the kind of wedding you wanted?”
Ariadne doesn’t drop her gown, nor does she remove her foot from the chair. His question is hesitant, like he really doesn’t want to know the answer to it, but he asks anyway. “No,” she replies honestly, running her fingers through his slicked back hair, bringing her hand to tilt his chin upward. He nuzzles her thigh, in an all too familiar fashion, and she can feel the smile against her skin.
He stands, righting her dress as he ascends. “You look beautiful,” Arthur tells her pressing a kiss to her forehead, slipping the gun into her hand. “Give me twenty minutes.”
With shaky hands, she holds the semi-automatic and pulls the trigger. No matter how many times she’s done it, Ariadne will never grow accustomed to killing Arthur in dreams, much less seeing his limp body. She shuffles around him.
“Rose, darling, are you in there?” She can hear Giovanni Moretti, her groom, calling for her.
She’s faced with two options. Shoot herself and end the dream faster than Arthur anticipates or face the poetry spouting Italian again.
“Darling?” Giovanni calls again.
“Sorry Arthur,” She mutters under her breath before turning the gun on herself.
He’s prepared for her early exit. Arthur is always prepared. He pries the needle from Giovanni’s wrist gently and he thumbs away the droplet of blood quickly. Ariadne shuts the PASIV case, and the vintage trunk it’s in. They’re out the door of the train compartment before the Italian man can open his eyes. Their job in Rome is done and their employer needn’t doubt their two man operation any longer.
At the age of thirty two Ariadne gets married to a romantic, handsome man, in a gothic style chapel, wearing a beautiful gown, surrounded by hundreds of elated projections. It’s the second wedding she attends where she’s the bride. At the age of thirty one she signs her name on a piece of paper, in a dimly lit office, that binds her to Arthur forever.
fin.
In my mind, they totally went home and had "we're such a BAMF couple" sex after that job.
Summary : “You may kiss the bride.” Warm, soft lips descend on hers.
Rating : pg-13
Notes : Written for this inception_kink prompt. Three times the bridesmaid and once the bride.
Further Notes : I made one minor change and added an extra wedding.
four times the bridesmaid
i
She’s sixteen the first time someone asks her to be in their wedding party. It’s a favor she does begrudgingly.
A distant cousin, one she’s seen a total of five times in her life, is getting married and she needs one more person to fill the role of bridesmaid. Her third best friend had an emergency and she’s the only one who’s small enough to fit into the already tailored dress. Ariadne doesn’t talk to her mother for three weeks after learning she agreed to let her daughter participate in a wedding she doesn’t want to go to and walk down the aisle in the pale blue monstrosity.
Her face is painted on by the bride’s mother-in-law. She wears too much blush and eye shadow. Her full lips are doused with fire engine red lipstick and her hair is drowned in hairspray that holds her curls together. She has a headache before the ceremony even begins.
Her brother laughs when he sees her and tells her she looks like a baby prostitute. She’ll have to remember that the girl he brings to the ceremony isn’t his girlfriend. Ammunition like that is a gift.
If asked, she’ll swear the groomsman was at least seven feet tall. It’s a ridiculous sight in comparison to her mediocre five. She’s all but dragged down the aisle, feeling very much like a child like the entire time.
She swears she’ll never do it again. The humiliation isn’t worth it, even if the bride looks euphoric when she thanks her for stepping in.
ii
The second time she’s barely twenty four. It’s a mistake she vaguely remembers.
They’re in Vegas doing a job that reminds her a little too much of Ocean’s 11, if only because Eames keeps voicing that one thought over and over again. Their Danny Ocean, Cobb, is no longer with them, so Arthur assumes the position. Ariadne can’t help but think he works the role much better than Frank Sinatra ever did. He looks much better in a suit too. It’s only her third job, the second one where they’re employed by Saito.
I’m willing to bet he’s out to take over the world, Eames comments.
They don’t question his request however. It’s not nearly as dangerous as the first, but it’s a risk. Going after a casino owner was a gamble. That’s Yusuf’s one and only pun. She’s the only one who laughs at the attempt.
It’s a high stakes plan that involves a lot of charm, from Arthur. He’s just the type the P.A of the casino owner likes. Eames ends up hanging from the side of a building and Ariadne is a less than perfect lookout for the PASIV and security. It’s not dangerous like Inception, but it’s difficult. When they do pull it off successfully, barely so, Yusuf proposes drinking as a stress reliever. He and Eames hit the bar. They hit it hard.
You might not want to join them, Arthur advises, breath ticking the shell of her ear as he leans over to her. It’s decided then and there. She needs a drink. She and Arthur have been doing an awkward dance around each other since she agreed to work with him, with them, and his close proximity drives her to the brink of insanity. If only because there’s nothing she can do to stop him smiling at her or even talking to her.
Many drinks and one blurry hour later, they’re piled into a Las Vegas wedding chapel. Yusuf stands at the altar wearing a proud, if not drunk, grin and his bride is tremendously happy. She’s three sheets to the wind herself. Eames is passed out in one of the pews, curled into a ball protecting himself from unknown dangers. Ariadne is only halfway to being drunk herself and being the only female available she stands next to the bride, body drooping just slightly. Arthur stands next to Yusuf, smiling. He’s the only one not intoxicated to the point of madness and the sight of his team, especially that of Eames, has him grinning.
It’s not a touching wedding by any means. Ariadne holds the bouquet of plastic flowers, chewing on the worn neckline of her t-shirt, watching Arthur the entire time, while Yusuf’s bride kisses him. She tries to remember what Arthur’s lips feel like. She can't.
Be careful, you could be next, Arthur whispers in her ear when he escorts her down the aisle, his strong hands holding her upright.
You wouldn’t let that happen, would you? Her voice is heavy, her breath laced with the whiskey she bummed off Eames.
No, no I wouldn’t, Arthur shakes his head. She's too far gone to blush because of his nearness, or even notice the softness he regards her with. She’s definitely too far gone too remember that Eames is still in the pew.
Ariadne doesn’t remember any of it happening. It’s only when Eames shows up at the hotel room, hung over and with a back ache, does Arthur regale them with the tale of Yusuf’s drunken nuptials with a smile so wide, Ariadne swears it hurts her eyes.
iii
The third time, she’s just one month shy of twenty seven. This wedding ends in divorce. Abruptly.
She’s an architect in both dreams and the real world. Saito has sunken his claws into her and refuses to relinquish his hold. Ariadne can’t say she minds. She’s never out of work.
They’re in L.A visiting Cobb, just a minor delay in the trip they’re making to New York from Russia. Somehow they’ve become Saito’s people. They’re never out of work. Ariadne is beginning to believe that Saito really is trying to take over the world.
When Phillipa’s eyes fall on Eames, she decides right then that he’s the prince she’s been waiting for. Cobb looks horrified and Ariadne elbows Yusuf who snorts loudly. Arthur has enough sense to scurry off with James before he says anything about Eames that will hurt Phillipa’s delicate sensibilities.
Eames, a prince! He’s all but rolling on the ground.
Phillipa smiles up at Eames, her tiny head tilted all the way back so she can see him. Marry me. It’s a demand, not a request.
It would be an honor, Eames bends on one knee and kisses her tiny hand. Ariadne, at the age of eighty will look back and say that this moment is the most adorable thing she’s ever seen. Eames, the gentle giant, holding Phillipa’s hand in his, dwarfing hers really, and Phillipa giggling madly.
Phillipa doesn’t wait for her father’s approval. She marches off to get ready for her wedding, dragging Ariadne along behind her.
They all humor her game if only because she has a temper to match that of her mother's.
The places are set not an hour later. Araidne smiles down at Phillipa fixing the veil, a lace tablecloth, over her cherubic face. She can’t help but think it should be Mal who’s playing pretend with her. When the girl tugs at her hand impatiently, Ariadne picks up her own bouquet of wild flowers, mostly weeds, James picked lazily. This time she’s not in jeans and an old t-shirt. She’s wearing a smart skirt suit. It’s the only nice thing she has in her small suitcase. Cobb is ready to walk, carry, his daughter down the make shift aisle Yusuf hurriedly put together and Arthur is waiting for her at the back. He’s the best man, she’s the maid of honor. Eames stands under the tree house wearing shorts, that show off tanned muscular legs, and a white shirt.
Dom is very close to shooting himself in the head, Arthur whispers to her, linking her arm through his.
I can only imagine, Ariadne laughs when James presses play on the tiny pink radio he’s carrying. He and Yusuf fill the roles of guests at the wedding. Arthur’s fingers don’t relinquish the hold they have on her smaller ones. He makes the walk agonizingly slow, thumb stroking the back of her hand.
She wants to squeeze her eyes shut and enjoy the sensations of his hands. Those strong hands. The very hands that taught her how to shoot a rifle without jumping. The hands that cradled her face comfortingly when Eames got run over by a 7 ton truck in dream space, in Jakarta. The hands that slipped tantalizingly slow up the back of her shirt in Columbia, teasing her spine with a lone finger while his mouth scattered kisses on every inch of bare skin he could find, not a month ago. She doesn’t squeeze her eyes shut, however. They part at the altar, a spot of grass under the tree house, and Ariadne watches Cobb all but sprint down the aisle with Phillipa. Not only is he the father of the bride, but he’s also the minister presiding over the ceremony.
They exchange vows. Eames promises to always buy her push pop rings, he has no idea what those are he confesses later, and Phillipa promises to never eat all the cookies without sharing at least one with him first. Eames thinks it’s a fair exchange. Ariadne hides a smile behind her fist. Cobb rolls his eyes. Yusuf thinks she should share more than one. James agrees. Arthur doesn’t take his eyes off her and Araidne flushes red. She’ll never grow accustomed to the intensity in his eyes.
When Eames lifts her veil and presses a kiss to her cheek that’s covered with blush - Ariadne couldn't pry her hands from the thing-, Phillipa frowns, pushing him away as best she can with her small hands.
What’s the matter pet? Eames kneels before her.
I don’t want to be married to you anymore. You hurt me. She rubs her cheek sorely. Eames runs his fingers over his own stubble. I don’t like you anymore.
At least Yusuf can safely say he’s not the one with the shortest marriage now, Arthur smirks.
Let’s not call this a marriage, Cobb frowns and glares at the same time. It’s a sight that stops them all for a moment.
Phillipa turns to Ariadne instantly. It’s your turn now. You and Uncle Arthur have to get married. Big men have to marry tiny ladies to protect them.
Ariadne is at a temporary loss for words and Arthur’s eyes bore into her skin. Well if that’s the case, I guess I’ll marry Eames too. He’s bigger than Uncle Arthur. He can protect me better.
She cocks her head to side, thinking for a second, and then shakes her head no. Uncle Arthur is taller. Phillipa says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and Ariadne should know it too. And Eames is my Prince. Not yours. That’s the end of the discussion.
Phillipa runs off, tossing her veil over her head. She wants a snack. James runs after her, screaming at her to leave his ice cream alone. Cobb sighs heavily, following after them to intervene in whatever scuffle might erupt between the siblings. Eames disappears with Yusuf almost instantly and Ariadne is left standing with Arthur, still holding her bouquet.
He presses a hand to her lower back, ushering her towards the house. She feels the warmth of his palm against the gauzy material of her jacket and her stomach tightens. One month since that night in Columbia and she still isn’t used to the feeling of being with him.
I’d kill you before I let you marry Eames. I don’t think my guilty conscience would leave me be after something like that.
iv
The fourth time someone asks her to be in their wedding party, she can’t say no. She’s twenty eight years and 6 months old. This time it’s true love.
She’s said no to being in wedding parties before. She’d said no to friends she’d long lost contact with, who called her out of the blue, but this was different. Her brother’s wedding wasn’t something she could miss. Ariadne had friends, ones she no longer knew, but her brother’s really the only person she’d call her best friend. She’d lost contact with most of her family, but not him. Never him.
You can’t go, Arthur tells her when she announces that she’s the Best Man in the ceremony.
What do you mean I can’t go? I have to. Her lips are set in a firm line and she stares at him sternly.
After the last job, they’re still looking for us. It’s in our best interest to hide. You can’t go.
You can’t tell me what to do, Arthur! She’s well aware of the fact that she sounds all of sixteen at the moment.
In this instance, yes I can. You’re not going. His voice holds a tone of finality and Ariadne glares.
The novelty of being with Arthur wears thin quickly. The tug of pleasure she got when he tried to protect her was long gone. One year and eight months of being together, five years and six months of working together, and he still doesn’t think she can make her own decisions. The last job was nothing short of a disaster, but she wouldn’t let it keep her from seeing her brother get married. She’s nothing if not headstrong.
She packs a bag and pulls on her raincoat. Arthur is in the kitchen, elbow deep in cleaning solvent. Ariadne clears her throat loudly. I’m leaving, She announces. She hears the faint whisper of fuck before she’s out the door.
It takes two layover flights from Kazakhstan and a train to get her to New Hampshire. When she does get there, she’s not so sure it’s her smartest idea. Her childhood home is packed to the brim with family members she barely remembers and she wants to erase the last twenty four hours and go back to the cramped hole in the wall in Kazakhstan where she left Arthur. All eyes are on her when she enters and it feels like a bad dream.
And here I was thinking you’d never leave Paris for my little wedding.
She drops her bag and launches herself at her brother. She can’t tell him that just thirty six hours before she was fleeing for her life, not in Paris, but in Mongolia, but she can hug him. Hugging him will help her forget that she left Arthur behind, stupidly.
Hugging him or her mother and father doesn’t help her forget Arthur. She listens to Andrew’s friends talk about his pending bachelor party and her mind wanders. Ariadne wonders if he misses her or if he’s really angry. She wonders if he’s angry enough to make that vein in his forehead pop.
Her family asks about her life in Paris and she lies. She’s gotten quite good at it. She lies about the people she knows and she lies about a pub she frequents. She vaguely recalls the name of one from her University days. She doesn’t talk about Yusuf and his affinity for terrible puns and his love of cats. She doesn’t talk about Eames and his playboy ways. She doesn’t mention Arthur because they’ll know. They’ll know that he’s the one she loves. She lets them believe that the Ariadne they once knew is still there. They don’t have to know about her new career.
She knows how to get into contact with him, to find him, but she doesn’t touch her phone. It’s the last weekend she has with the people she once knew.
Ariadne stands next to her brother at the altar whilst his bride walks down the aisle. Her mother glances at the two of them disapprovingly during the bride’s march. She still doesn’t get why her daughter is Andrew’s Best Man rather than one of his Darthmouth friends. It makes it all worth it for Ariadne.
Nearly every man she sees at the reception makes Ariadne double take. Every cinched tie and perfectly place tie clip makes her stop, if just for a moment. She fiddles with the flower in the lapel of her jacket and drinks the expensive wine at the open bar. She dances with her father and chats idly with cousins she recalls vaguely. She waits impatiently for the evening to be over. She’ll pack her bag and visit Eames in London. It’s the only real plan her mind can come up with that doesn’t involve Arthur in any way.
The guests are long gone, her parents have retreated inside the house, seeking solace from the heat and she sits staring at the nothingness. She’ll leave in the morning. She’ll make up an excellent excuse about the firm in Paris wanting her back before the week is up and she’ll leave. She’ll run because there are men after her. Men, she’s surprised haven’t found her yet.
As far as being the Best Man goes, I’d say you did a better job than I did at Dom and Mal’s wedding. Arthur stands behind the chair she’s sitting in, leaning against a tree, arms folded.
She stands, clutching her beer tightly. I find that incredibly difficult to believe. They’re in similar states of undress. Their white shirts are rolled up to their elbows and their buttons are undone, exposing long necks. How long have you been here?
One day, he replies, pushing away from the tree, I had to tie up some loose ends. You shouldn’t have left like that.
And you shouldn’t have been an ass about me wanting to come ho … here. She says it frankly and it entices a grin from Arthur. It’s wide, boyish and makes him look younger than his years.
Did you get what you came for? He’s before her now, coaxing the bottle of beer out of her fingers.
Ariadne nods, watching his lips enclose around the tip of the bottle, his tongue reaching forward to secure any liquid from falling. I’m ready to go home.
She needs the trip to New Hampshire to remind her, reinforce the idea, that home isn’t the house where her father marked her growing height on the wall. She needs to see her brother, her best friend, one last time for her to really know that home is wherever work and Arthur take her.
once the bride
She stands facing her groom. He’s all smiles and she’s the picture perfect bride. She’s ecstatic and she knows it shows. Everyone’s eyes are on them and she’s not nervous. No, she’s ready for this. She wears a pristine white lace gown that looks like it’s sewed by cartoon animals. It’s a representation of a humongous lie, she thinks. It should have been at least off white. No matter, she listens to her groom’s vows. They’re almost poetic. Even Keats would have a difficult time topping him.
Just out of the corner of her eyes, Ariadne can see Arthur sitting amongst the guests. He slips into the chapel silently, unnoticed by anyone else. He’s just another face in the crowd. She can always find him though. His eyes are set solely on her and she wills herself not to react.
“Speak now or forever hold your peace.” The loud voice of the priest makes her jump. Shit.
That wasn’t supposed to be in there. That was all Arthur’s fault. She can see the smirk tugging at his lips and she wants to slap it right off. When no one speaks up, Arthur opens and closes his mouth a few times, the priest continues.
“You may kiss the bride.” Warm, soft lips descend on hers.
The reception is well under way when Ariadne excuses herself, prying her groom’s hand off hers, and runs to her dressing room. She hears the door close behind her not a moment later.
She hears the click of the lock and he closes the space between them quickly. A shadow passes over his countenance when he looks down at her hands. He holds her left hand up and pulls the diamond ring off her finger. “Arthur!”
“It’s ugly,” he shrugs easily, kicking it away with the tip of his shoe.
“Is not.” She rebuts childishly. “Did you get it?”
Arthur nods, lifting her leg, resting it on the soft satin cushion of the nearest chair. His gloved hand trails from her ankle, up to her knee and onto her thigh. He’s on his knees before her, her dress is hiked up to her waist, and she can feel his breath on her thigh. Her hands grab the edges of the table she’s pressed tightly against. She can feel the crack of her nails and the fine hairs on her thigh stand on end.
“Just get the damn gun,” She growls when Arthur presses a kiss against her skin, his tongue coming out to play for just a moment, removing the Beretta from its holster around her thigh. She doesn’t bother to ask why he couldn’t just use his own gun.
Arthur removes the silencer from his jacket pocket and screws it on quickly. “Is this the kind of wedding you wanted?”
Ariadne doesn’t drop her gown, nor does she remove her foot from the chair. His question is hesitant, like he really doesn’t want to know the answer to it, but he asks anyway. “No,” she replies honestly, running her fingers through his slicked back hair, bringing her hand to tilt his chin upward. He nuzzles her thigh, in an all too familiar fashion, and she can feel the smile against her skin.
He stands, righting her dress as he ascends. “You look beautiful,” Arthur tells her pressing a kiss to her forehead, slipping the gun into her hand. “Give me twenty minutes.”
With shaky hands, she holds the semi-automatic and pulls the trigger. No matter how many times she’s done it, Ariadne will never grow accustomed to killing Arthur in dreams, much less seeing his limp body. She shuffles around him.
“Rose, darling, are you in there?” She can hear Giovanni Moretti, her groom, calling for her.
She’s faced with two options. Shoot herself and end the dream faster than Arthur anticipates or face the poetry spouting Italian again.
“Darling?” Giovanni calls again.
“Sorry Arthur,” She mutters under her breath before turning the gun on herself.
He’s prepared for her early exit. Arthur is always prepared. He pries the needle from Giovanni’s wrist gently and he thumbs away the droplet of blood quickly. Ariadne shuts the PASIV case, and the vintage trunk it’s in. They’re out the door of the train compartment before the Italian man can open his eyes. Their job in Rome is done and their employer needn’t doubt their two man operation any longer.
At the age of thirty two Ariadne gets married to a romantic, handsome man, in a gothic style chapel, wearing a beautiful gown, surrounded by hundreds of elated projections. It’s the second wedding she attends where she’s the bride. At the age of thirty one she signs her name on a piece of paper, in a dimly lit office, that binds her to Arthur forever.
fin.
In my mind, they totally went home and had "we're such a BAMF couple" sex after that job.