Work Text:
Wes was not the individual selected to organize Wedge’s bachelor party. Yet here they are, gathered in a dance club, dancing with strippers while pink glitter foam rains from nowhere.
“Relax,” Wes encourages, expression masked by yellow shutter shades. “They’re game for anything. Bumping, grinding, dice -- whatever you’re into.”
“That’s not...” Wedge starts, overwhelmed by his squadron’s enthusiasm. “The dancers are, um, men.”
“Oh, they’re not dancers.” Wes chuckles, migrating center-stage. “They’re fans.”
Wes shucks his pants during one dance maneuver; they land over Wedge’s head, mercifully blinding him.
Then, the crowd squeals.
That’s all he remembers, when Iella asks.