Spies don't get married.
Yet here he was; standing at the end of the aisle, breaking one of his most fundamental rules: don't get attached, don't put down roots. Then again, he thought, that rule had pretty much been out the window ever since he had met Fiona. Maybe he could have stayed away after the first time, but once he had seen her in Miami, he knew he couldn't leave again.
Despite his heart screaming that this was the right thing to do, his brain was still questioning whether or not that was true.
And just like that, it registered what a huge step he was taking. He was getting married. By definition, it was a huge commitment. He inhaled a sharp breath. Marriage.
He saw Sam shoot him a look from the front row. He knew exactly what he saying. It was the facial expression equivalent of "What the hell, Mike?"
He didn't know how to answer without speaking, but luckily (unluckily?) he was saved by the start of the wedding march.
He looked up, and every doubt he had been having just seconds before vanished completely.
He'd always known that she was the only one he could be with, but he had thought he'd be able to be happy without her. However, seeing her now, walking down the aisle, he realized that he couldn't be happy without her; he wouldn't even be okay. He needed her, more than anything else, and he had finally figured it out. He supposed it probably wasn't good he was figuring this out the day of the wedding; he should have been sure before he had even proposed, but he had thought he was sure and it was better late than never, right?
He smirked at the thought of Fi finding out he hadn't been sure until today, but then decided as funny as it would be, it would probably also include a lot a physical damage to him.
He tried to stifle a laugh as the priest started talking. Fi shot him a look and hissed "Michael" under her breath. This unfortunately, only made him want to laugh more. He managed to control it, though, his spy training coming in handy.
This is worse than a stakeout, he muttered to himself. The priest was droning on, and even Michael's patience was wearing thin. He glanced at Fi out of the corner of his eye and saw that she looked even antsier than he did, although patience wasn't exactly one of her strong suits. Tactical support, sure. Explosives, definitely. Patience, not so much.
He was amused that the bride and groom were bored at their own wedding. Then again, Fi was pretty much always bored if there weren't any explosions, guns, or violence involved. For the second time, he tried to not let the amusement show on his face.
Then the rings were coming out, and he realized they were nearing the end, thank god.
He took the band and slipped it onto Fi's petite finger while he recited his vows, and watched as she did the same.
Then he pulled her into a kiss before the priest had even said his "you may now kiss the bride" and he could hear their guests chuckle, as well as what sounded sort of like his mother crying.
"I now give you Mr. and Mrs. Westen."
He turned and faced the few people that had been invited to the wedding. His mother was in fact crying, but for once they were happy tears. For that matter, Sam's eyes looked like they might have been slightly misty as well.
This time he couldn't help but smile as he scooped Fi into his arms. She shot him a look, but he wasn't about to put her down and she didn't want to risk ruining her dress, hair, or make-up trying to make him.
As he held her in his arms, he felt the distinct outline of a gun under her wedding dress. He shook his head. Once they reached the limo that was going to take them to the reception, he placed her inside and followed, closing the door behind him. He hit the button that divided the driver's section from the passengers' and grabbed the gun from its ankle holster under Fi's dress.
"Fi," he sounded slightly exasperated, "why did you feel the need to be armed at your own wedding?" He sighed and inspected the gun more closely. "And where the hell did you find blue plugs?"
She shrugged. "Special order."
"Why would you even want blue plugs for a gun? I mean, they're blue." He wasn't actually sure he wanted to know the answer, but he asked anyway.
"Michael, Michael, Michael. Every bride needs something blue on her wedding day." She was shaking her head.
He stared. "And blue plugs for your gun was the best way to honor the tradition?"
He decided that it wasn't worth it to keep discussing the topic, so instead he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her close.
The limo reached the reception and pulled to a stop. As Fi tried to climb out, Michael could have sworn he saw what looked like another gun, so he pulled her back and grabbed it, this time out of a thigh holster.
"Jesus, Fi. Another one?" He gave her a look. "And, hey, wait a second. This is my gun. We both know you have enough of your own, what'd you take mine for?"
She smiled and climbed out of the limo. She turned back and looked over her shoulder.
"Something borrowed, Michael, something borrowed." She then smirked at the dumbfounded expression on his face and continued walking, knowing he'd catch up eventually.
As he walked into the reception he was racking his memory, trying to remember exactly how that wedding tradition went. He wanted to be prepared for however many more guns Fi had hidden under her dress.
Sometimes he wondered if she was always going to be like this. He found himself trying to imagine an eighty-year-old Fiona carrying around blocks of C4. He was slightly scared that the image wasn't all that hard to imagine.
As he walked into the reception, he found himself hoping that Sam wasn't enjoying the open bar too much. He could just picture what could happen, and he really hoped it didn't. He caught up to his wife and whispered into her ear.
"You have more guns hidden under there, don't you?"
She neither confirmed nor denied; she just gave him a smile that frightened him a little bit and then pulled him onto the dance floor.
About two hours into the reception, he found the third gun. He pulled her into the bathroom so he could inspect it more closely.
"Hey, I remember this gun. I gave you this gun. It was a birthday present from how long ago? You still have it?" He looked slightly surprised.
"Of course I still have it, Michael. It came in handy too."
He looked a little green. "What do you mean by handy, Fi?"
She shook her head. "Michael, Michael. I didn't mean it came in handy as in I killed someone with it. I meant in came in handy as the 'something old' the tradition called for."
He visibly relaxed. "Oh, okay. Good, I'm glad."
She laughed and pulled him back into the party.
He didn't find her fourth gun until after the reception had ended and their guests had gone home. It had been discovered after her wedding dress had come off in their hotel suite.
He sighed. Some things would never change. "Fiona, what could you possibly think would happen at a wedding that you'd need four guns for?"
She shrugged. "Isn't it spies who always say 'be prepared'?"
He rolled his eyes. "I guess you're right."
She nodded. "Of course I'm right." He decided it would be better to not reply to that statement.
He held it up. "I don't recognize this one," he said as he examined a little more closely.
She took it from him and placed on the bedside table. "That's because it's new, Michael."
She laughed at the expression on his face. It was as if a light bulb had gone off over his head. "Something old, something new," he started, and they both finished with "something borrowed, something blue."
He shook his head. "I've been trying to remember that all night."
"Well, now that you have, can we forget about the guns?"
He nodded, and she kissed him, erasing all of his thoughts about the guns and well, pretty much everything else, too.
A few hours later, she was sleeping with her head on his chest and he couldn't help but laugh a little.
"Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue," he muttered to himself. Even after all this time, she could still surprise him.
'Well, our honeymoon is certainly going to be interesting,' he thought to himself.