Chapter Text
Baz
This is not the first time I have woken up in bed with a beautiful stranger with no memory of the night before, but normally I wake up naked. Not fully dressed, and definitely not dressed in different clothes than I went out in.
So why exactly am I wearing a polyester tuxedo that smells of crisps and strawberry?
I hold back my nausea at that last thought.
My companion seems in no better shape, he’s laying with one foot on the pillow and the other seems to have knocked over a lamp on the nightstand. What did I do last night?
I quickly roll off the bed and set to work finding my phone. It’s not in any of my pockets or the nightstand. I lean over to check the floor but then the nausea returns full force and I run off to the bathroom. Which solves two problems, because I find my phone in the bathroom sink.
I have 3 texts and a missed call, the call is from Dev, that is to be expected, but who is Simon Pitch?
Penny
“Where could he be?” I sigh into the phone.
“You still haven’t heard from him since last night?” Shepherd asks.
“No, and I can’t go out looking for him, I’ve already missed the keynote this morning and I can’t miss this panel, it was the whole reason we came to this stupid desert in the first place.”
“I’m sure he’s fine. He’s probably just hung over somewhere and forgot to check in. You did say the last place you saw him was the hotel bar last night. Maybe he met someone.”
“I hope you’re right. I hate it when he does this.” I lift my glasses to pinch the bridge of my nose. “He’s always running off.”
He hums in agreement.
“Call me before you go to bed,” I add before hanging up, “it’ll be the afternoon here, I can catch you between lectures.”
“I will, I promise. Good luck. I hope Si turns up.”
“Me too.”
Baz
I walk back to the bedroom to see him snoring like some kind of animal. He’s drooling on the sheets. I grimace.
“Uh-hum,” I clear my throat.
No response.
“UH-HUM,” I try again, louder.
I add a nudge for good measure, but all he does is smack his lips, scratch his bum and continue his deep slumber.
“Alright,” I conceded.
I rummage about the room for clues and find a wallet, “okay, who are you?”
There is a picture of a bubbly, sandy haired man. Literally; he looks like he swam to DVLA. He’s British; that’s a relief.
“SNOW, SIMON.”
I think back to the text, the one from “Simon Pitch.” I remember what horrible city Dev and Niall dragged me to. Suddenly I begin to notice the aching in my hands. My fingers are swollen. All the digits on my right hand are covered in cheap plastic rings painted silver, each with a different colored “gem.” I look to my left ring finger and see a ring shaped like a skull with red stone eyes, like I’m in some kind of bad vampire cosplay.
“Oh, no.”
I turn to the man in my bed with a look of panic and grab his left wrist.
“HEY!” a voice yells in protest, but sure enough it is there; a wedding ring. A strawberry ring pop, but a ring all the same.
“What gives?” the beast snarls in a drowsy state.
“Simon, get up.”
He half opens one eye and stares at me like a doe. When he’s finally taken me in, he pouts and goes to fall back asleep.
“Oh no you don’t,” I say, pulling the bunched up sheets from his grasp.
“NO!” He whines, a long plea, “not until breakfast!”
“It’s midday!” I protest, but he just buries his face into the mattress.
“Damn,” I sigh, picking up the phone.
Simon
“Was that so hard?” I ask, my mouth stuffed with room service pancakes.
The grumpy man pushes the cup of coffee towards me.
He looks sick, I can’t imagine why. We have bacon!
He disappears into the bathroom and when he returns a moment later, he starts gathering up articles of clothing off the floor.
I watch him while I lick syrup off the fork. “What are you doing?”
“I’m looking for my shoes.” He mutters. “Hurry up, we need to get going.”
“Why? We have food,” I explain, “and cable,” I point to the television in emphasis.
“Because,” he groans, tossing something on the bed toward me, “we need to go down to the courtroom before I miss my flight out of this awful city.”
“It’s not so bad,” I defend, looking down at the object he threw at me. It’s a prize, we got it in a coin machine downstairs, I remember. It’s a ring with two red eyes set in a plastic skull.
He huffs.
Oh.
Oops.
“Drink the coffee,” he instructs, and I take a big gulp of the gritty beverage.
Baz
“Oh forget it! Hand me that tissue box!”
“Why?” He asks. That seems to be the question of the hour. Why did I come to Las Vegas? Why did I marry this drunken buffoon? Why can’t I find my bloody shoes?
“Because, I am not walking barefoot on this carpet,” I explain, emptying out the thin cardboard boxes and squishing my feet into them.
“There,” I say. “How do I look?”
He gives me two thumbs up and drops a half eaten apple slice on the bed.
“Good,” I straighten my jacket, “now let’s go get divorced.”
“Can I take this?” He holds up a pre-packaged muffin.
“Sure. Come on. I’ve got marriages to annul and planes to catch.”
“Marriages? Wow. You sure had a busy night…”
“Baz.”
“Simon,” he holds out the hand that’s not holding a muffin, “nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
There’s a knock at the door that interrupts us, and when I open it a young man in a uniform pushes in a bar cart with a bouquet of roses and a chilled bottle of champagne.
“Oh. I think you have the wrong room, we didn’t order any of this, I’m sorry,” I explain, but the man says it is complimentary for all of the hotel’s newlyweds. My head splits. “About that. Can you direct us to the district court, please?”
He jots down some directions and when I return to the bedroom Simon is watching cartoons and drinking directly from the bottle of champagne. “What the hell are you doing?” I yell.
He seems to ponder this a moment, “celebrating?”
“No!” I pull the bottle from his lips with a pop, and hand him his muffin as a replacement. “No. More. Alcohol,” I emphasize, wagging a finger. “Come on. Let’s go. Right now.”
We step out into the hallway and he takes my hand. “Well we are married after all,” he explains, but I don’t protest. At least I know he won’t go wandering off this way.
It turns out to be more for balance than anything. It’s like dragging Mordelia through the grocery store. He’s swinging his weight to one side trying to drag me to every vending machine we pass.
“Simon, can you at least try to stay up straight?”
He bursts out into a fit of giggles.
“What? What’s so funny about that?”
“Straight,” he whispers under a smile. “Cause we got gay married!” he yells way too loudly.
I wonder if I could go to the court without him. “Well, you see your Honor, I don’t even know where this Mr. Snow fellow is, so I can’t really be married to him and you should just tear that receipt up.”
Mr. Pitch, I think. Damn.
“Ha-ha,” I feign.
Simon
I married a very grouchy man. I’d have hoped black out drunk me would have better taste. If I was going to Vegas marry someone I’d want it to be someone fun and devilishly fit. I pause to look at him again. He’s scowling. Why is he wearing tissue boxes on his feet. Hehe, that’s silly. Maybe he was fun when I married him and now he’s just hungover. Maybe if he had a drink he’d lighten up. I turn to walk toward one of the casino bars, but something stops me and the sudden movement jostles me to the floor.
The man, my husband, Baz, is also on the floor. He’s holding my hand and scrunching his nose in a very odd sort of way. I think it’s bleeding. I want to lay there and look at him more, but he pulls me up to my feet. He’s definitely quite cross now.