Archive of Our Own

dearly beloved.

There was a ring on her finger.

Granted, there was also a ring on his finger. His was shiny, a bit too snug, and a tone of silver that looked a little off-putting against his emerald complexion. The sight still managed to be a lot easier on the eyes than that blinding Vegas sun filtering in through the broken blinds, though his aversion to that might have had something to do with his horrible hangover. But the ring on her finger? The sharp thud of pain which had been steadily thumping on his temple for the past fifteen minutes couldn’t get him to look away from that. At this particular moment, nothing really could.

Raven was mostly hidden under a tangled bundle of sheets, a small fortress she had built around herself in her sleep. Her hand, however, poked out. It laid right in front of him to rest on the pillow between them. Her ring was also shiny, but it seemed to fit pretty well on her lithe finger. That silver perfectly complemented her skin that looked like she drank from the moon and bathed in it every night.

It was all so strange. So surreal. A little uncomfortable, too.

This was his crush. They weren’t together, but this didn’t mean that he never imagined waking up next to her with rings on both of their fingers. He had conjured up such scenarios in his mind more times than what was probably appropriate for just friends. He just never envisioned it quite like this: in a trashed hotel room with no memory of the night before. The room was a parade of excess—feather boas draped over a ceiling fan, casino chips scattered across the carpet, and a tell-tale sprinkle of glitter trailing from the bathroom door. There were even playing cards and what suspiciously looked like part of an Elvis costume strewn across the nightstand.

So many clues.

But Garfield couldn’t remember shit.

This amnesia compelled him to reach over to touch her ring because—what the fuck happened last night?—he just wanted to check for himself. Confirming the reality of that ring might anchor him back to what happened. He did have a hangover, so this could easily be an alcohol induced dream. He also couldn’t remember the events leading up to this, so this could just as easily be a hallucination. 

The sheets stirred with a soft groan. Garfield instantly snatched his hand away, and out popped Raven’s head. There she lay in all her splendor. Her disheveled splendor. Her drool-faced splendor. Her violet hair in a cascade of wild chaos splendor. Her face bearing the imprint of a wrinkled pillow splendor.

She looked crazy.

And absolutely beautiful.

Raven blinked slowly, her eyes adjusting with difficulty to the light as she surveyed the room. She shirked back from the sun with a wince. Then, just like him, she spotted the silver band on her finger. Almost instinctively, she looked to his hand.

“I think we’re married.”

Her voice was remarkably calm. Too calm for someone who had just woken up to such a revelation.

Garfield attempted to sit up, his movement disturbing a minefield of mysterious objects. A soft clinking sound followed his stunted motion, and he lifted a half-empty champagne bottle wrapped with one purple feather boa entangled with a green one. His ring gleamed as he held the bottle up, as if to declare that this must have been the culprit. The alcohol. Not the color-coordinated boas.

“Do you remember anything?” he asked, his voice still rough with sleep.

Raven fixed a serious look onto him, her eyes clearing as she dredged up the night’s memories. 

"Elvis," she finally said, her tone a mix of wonder and certainty.

For some reason, that made Garfield laugh. A sharp hiss escaped him to interrupt as he shut his eyes with a pained groan. This made her laugh, and with that sound, memories began to trickle back.

The Titans were on high alert. Reports had come in that Gizmo was plotting to steal an experimental energy core, rumored to be powering the newest attraction at the Luxor Hotel in Las Vegas. Such technology, if wielded by the wrong hands, could wreak untold havoc. With a sense of urgency, they jetted off to Nevada, determined to intercept Gizmo and secure the core.

The mission started innocently enough—well, as innocent as anything could be after the team wrapped up a high-stakes mission involving a rogue supervillain and a ridiculous amount of slot machines. The fight culminated in a flashy showdown amidst the neon glow and the clanging bells of slot machines, ending with them dropping the defeated villain into the hands of waiting police. As they gathered to regroup, they discovered that their target had inadvertently left behind a literal fortune of unclaimed chips. Though these chips were initially part of a scheme to finance continued criminal activities, they were not scattered and unclaimed, like a forgotten treasure amidst the fallout of the skirmish.

Dick, being the leader, was forced to bear the responsibility of being, well, responsible.

“We have to cash them in,” he declared.

The rest of the team, despite their pointed disappointment, agreed. They headed for the cashier together, their steps gradually syncing with the lively beats pulsating from the casino’s sound system. As the chips were counted and exchanged for cash, each Titan’s eyes widened, alternating between watching the steadily growing stacks of money and glancing at one another. A mix of fatigue and the adrenaline rush of victory continued to course through their veins as it became clear: this money wasn’t theirs, but it also wasn’t Gizmo’s.

Not anymore.

“One million dollars,” announced the cashier with a professional smile.

A sharp and collective gasp escaped the team.

The cashier looked right back at them and asked quite simply, “How would you like to proceed?”

Four pairs of eyes turned to Dick, whose smile hinted at mischief. He met the cashier’s gaze with an easy shrug.

“Split it into five,” he said casually. “We deserve a break.”

And just like that, what was meant to be a routine mission cleanup quickly turned into an impromptu celebration of their victory.

They decided to get massages to ease the tensions of the battle, which somehow led to each of them purchasing separate luxury suites right beside each other that floated above the glittering Strip. A luxury suite would be incomplete without extravagant room service that filled five rolling carts with delights from around the world. One of them stumbled upon an all-you-can-eat buffet that catered to vegans after this, much to Garfield’s glee. Naturally, one needed sufficient drinks to help swallow all that food down. Water turned into juice. Juice turned into soda. Soda turned into apple cider. And apple cider smoothly transitioned into fruity alcohol concoctions that sparkled under the casino lights. 

As the night deepened, their spirits collectively soared, each Titan veering off into their own slice of Vegas chaos. Dick and Kori, hand in hand, disappeared into a neon-lit gift shop, laughing as they tried on ridiculous oversized hats. Victor, unable to resist the call of the slot machines, snuck his way back to the casinos, his eyes alight with the thrill of the gamble. Meanwhile, Garfield found himself drunk out of his mind with Raven. Those fruity drinks had done a number on them both. They laughed at every neon sign, bumped into elated tourists, tripped over their own feet more than once, and laughed over tripping over their own feet. Somehow, they were able to decide that holding each other close and bumping into things while tripping over their own feet together was the safest option for them.

“Rae-Rae,” Garfield whispered. Well, he tried to whisper. It was more like a restrained gurgle. Either way, it made Raven look up at him from her place in his chest as he pointed with  a shaky hand. “It’s Michael Jackson.”

Raven immediately began to cry.

The Michael Jackson impersonator, recognizing that they were properly prepared for him with alcohol, moonwalked his way toward them while rhythmically snapping his fingers. Garfield and Raven clung to each other with screams as they jumped up and down with excitement. When Michael finally stood before them, both took steadying breaths to calm themselves.

Raven, her voice steadier than her legs, managed to ask, “May we see the glove, Mr. Jackson?”

With a theatrical flourish, Michael thrust his sequined glove into the air, striking a pose and delivering a confident, “Hee-hee!”

Raven screamed with delight as Garfield blubbered incoherently. Michael danced and moonwalked the entire time, tilting his hat every so often to make them gasp in awe. He then seized the opportunity to peel Garfield out of Raven’s hold to try to teach his new green friend how to moonwalk. Garfield’s efforts were clumsy at best, not that Raven’s drunken eyes could tell. Through her drunken haze, she cheered him on enthusiastically until he stumbled forward. She caught him easily, pulling him close again.

Raven looked up at him with wide eyes filled with drunken confusion. “Are you Michael Jackson?”

Garfield blinked. Was he Michael Jackson? He met her eyes. “I think so—“

“No,” Michael interjected sharply, snapping his fingers under their noses to reclaim their attention. “I’m Michael Jackson. Only the real Michael Jackson would know Elvis.”

The claim, as ridiculous as it was, set off another round of excitement within Garfield.

Raven, however, wasn’t so easily convinced. She gave a sloppy snort and leaned forward to poke at Michael’s chest with a skeptic’s boldness. “You don’t know Elvis, you liar,” she slurred.

Garfield, swaying slightly as he held her, agreed with an emphatic nod. If Raven didn’t believe that Michael Jackson knew Elvis, why would he? Then, when it seemed that the night couldn’t get even more magical, Michael Jackson himself whispered something neither of them expected:

“I’ll take you to him right now.”

Just like that, Raven and Garfield were following Michael Jackson into the neon-lit chaos of the Vegas strip. There he was, The King himself—sequined jumpsuit and all. Raven, in her tipsy reverence and to Garfield’s eternal surprise, apologized for ever doubting Michael Jackson.

Elvis, gracious as ever, simply tipped his rhinestone-studded hat with a chuckle. “It’s all right, darlin,” he drawled. “We don’t hold grudges in Vegas. Mike’s trying to heal the world and I’m a hunk of burnin’ love, you know.”

Garfield’s heart swelled, words tumbling out before he could catch them. “I love you,” he blurted.

“And I can marry you two right now,” Elvis announced without missing a beat as his eyes twinkled with mischief. “For just fifty bucks.”

Michael’s joyful hee-hee! echoed in the background to punctuate the absurdity of the situation.

This was where Garfield began to sober up. Just a bit. So tiny.

It wasn’t like they didn’t have fifty bucks to spare. They both had their share of one million dollars. After splurging it on luxury experiences, food, and drinks, fifty dollars was still pretty comparable to pocket change. But this was Raven. The thought of her made the reality of what was being offered sink in. Sure, he liked her—a lot—and this would probably be his only chance, but it wasn’t right. They were both drunk, and she didn’t know how he felt. He wasn’t even sure if she felt the same.

Raven looked up at him, her eyes wide and slightly unfocused.

Garfield faltered under her gaze, his words stumbling out. “I know. We can’t—“

“We have to get married,” she insisted.

“We do?”

“I should have never doubted Michael Jackson!”

“See?” Michael chimed in with a wink. “She gets it!”

Garfield’s heart raced. Was this really happening? Was it the right thing to do, or just a Vegas-induced illusion? Yet as he watched Raven’s face, all doubts seemed to evaporate. All traces of sobriety also slipped away. Just one look into those eyes, and he felt drunk all over again—not just from the alcohol, but from her presence.

“We need rings,” he stammered.

Raven, along with Elvis and Michael, erupted in cheers as Garfield fumbled for his phone. He immediately FaceTimed Dick. He was the leader. Why wouldn’t the leader have rings?

The phone rang three times before Dick’s grinning, flushed face filled the screen. “Garrrrrrfield,” he drawled, his tone laced with booze and mirth. He gaze shifted to Raven, and his expression brightened even further. “Raveeeeeeeeeeeeen!”

Raven took the phone from Garfield, her voice firm yet slightly slurred, “Dick, we need rings now. I called Michael Jackson a liar and he knows Elvis."

“Listen,” Dick began conspiratorially. “I know—hic!—I know a guy. Wait. That’s the guy!”

“Michael Jackson?” Garfield asked, confused.

Everyone, including Elvis, looked to Michael, who held his gloved hand up. “I have never met that man. Your friend must be talking about my impersonator.”

Kori, who had been muttering something about destiny in the background, stuck her head into the frame. Dick choked on her hair. She ignored him. “There is a Michael Jackson impersonator for the Michael Jackson impersonator?”

“He’s not an impersonator, Kori,” Raven declared. “He knows Elvis.”

Michael gave another bright, “Hee-Hee!”

Before anymore questions could derail the night further, Dick focused the group, as best as his inebriated state allowed. “Team, we’ve got to find the dancing ring man.”

The next thing Garfield knew, he was standing at an altar made of casino lights and velvet ropes as he watched his crush walk down the aisle toward him. Victor served as his best man, not that he was happy about it. The rest of the team had to practically peel him away from the casinos and drag him to the chapel. He repaid everyone by drunkenly and loudly questioning Elvis’s credentials the entire time. In the front row, Dick was an emotional wreck as he bawled into Kori’s shoulder, who, in turn, dabbed at her own tears with a sequined handkerchief that was gifted to her by Michael Jackson. The real one. Not the impersonator.

And Raven—God—she was a vision in the most bizarrely beautiful wedding outfit Garfield had ever seen. The dress was white and lace, yet audaciously short, paired with glittery cowboy boots. Her hair was sculpted into a wild updo by none other than Ms. Liza Minnelli herself. As she reached him, clutching a huge bouquet of fake flowers, the smile on her face was all the adornment she needed. She illuminated the makeshift aisle more brightly than any casino light ever could.

Garfield smiled back.

Just drunk as hell.

Not that sobriety truly mattered at this point.

At the precipice of marital bliss, they were surrounded by friends who loved them, and those they met along the way: Elvis, Liza Minelli, Michael Jackson, and the Michael Jackson impersonator who also doubled as the ring man.

Elvis grinned, his voice booming as the ceremony began. Garfield, lost in the way Raven smiled at him, barely heard a word.

All he could think was: Where’s the reception gonna be?

Garfield stared at the stark white ceiling as the events of the previous night replayed in his mind like a surreal film. The massive hangover now made perfect sense. He hadn't just overindulged in alcohol—he also married his crush. In Vegas. He didn’t even want to think about how everyone else was doing. They were all drunk the entire time, and he was pretty sure Elvis and Michael Jackson had taken full advantage of them, but was this allowed? Them being married. Not being taken advantage of by old Hollywood stars.

Raven was curled up beside him, her presence a calming contrast to the chaos of his racing mind. She seemed peaceful, her breathing steady, but as Garfield's gaze lingered on her, the weight of what they'd done began to truly sink in. He turned away, his heart thumping in his chest, not from the hangover but from a burgeoning realization of deeper feelings.

“Is… Is this okay?” he ventured cautiously.

“Is what okay?” Raven's voice was soft, barely above a whisper, yet it cut through the silence with the sharpness of a knife.

“Us being married,” Garfield managed to say, each word laced with a mix of hope and uncertainty.

She paused, considering. “I think so. From what I remember, it was nice,” she replied, her voice tinged with a hint of humor that belied the nature of their predicament.

Garfield smiled faintly as he thought of the pictures everyone had taken with Elvis, the laughter around the cake they all shared, and the yellow marriage certificate. They each took turns signing it with a pink gel pen topped with faux-marabou fur before crashing someone else’s party afterwards. 

“The reception could have been better,” he mused.

She hummed noncommittally. “Notes for next time.”

His heart skipped a beat as he turned to look at her again. This time, she was looking away, her cheeks dusted with a pretty pink blush. The sight filled him with a mix of joy and apprehension. “This isn’t how I imagined it happening,” he confessed.

Raven hesitated. Slowly, she met his eyes. “You… imagined marrying me?”

Right. The reality of their situation hit him anew. They were married, yet he had never confessed his feelings. He shrugged. “Yeah.”

A pause settled between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t easily ignorable either. Definitely palpable.

“Well,” she finally said quietly. “How did you imagine it?”

Garfield’s face warmed again, even hotter this time, as his gaze shifted back to the safety of the ceiling. A flicker of nervousness passed through him. He was suddenly very afraid to look at her, afraid that she might think he was a dork. He certainly was a dork, but what if she didn't like that?

“Well,” he echoed thoughtfully, absentmindedly toying with his ring. “I imagined a small, intimate ceremony, just friends and family. Maybe on a beach. At sunset, you know? Personal vows. A laid-back reception. Actually remembering everything would definitely be a plus.”

Garfield stopped himself from rambling further. Her silence loomed over him as it lingered, stretching into a moment that felt like forever. He finally turned to look at her, only to find a tiny smile playing on her lips. Her eyes were slightly hazy but warm as she watched him. Before he could question what that look could possibly mean, she shuffled closer, nestling herself into him with a snug hug.

“I think I’m still drunk,” she confessed into his chest.

His arms wrapped around her reflexively, drawing her even closer. He dug his teeth into his bottom lip and took a sharp breath before shutting his eyes. “I really like you, Rae.”

Raven gave a deep sigh, then lifted her head to look at him. “You’re such a dork, Garfield.”

“I know,” he groaned.

“I like that about you.”

He popped an eye open. “You do?”

”I do,” she said with a smile, her voice soft yet earnest. Reassuring as she raised a hand to comb her fingers through his hair. “I like a lot of things about you. I like your stupid jokes and your green eyes. I like how you try to make people feel better when they’re sad and how seriously you take being vegetarian. I like watching you play video games. I really like your laugh. And I’m still drunk. How could you not tell that I really liked you too? Everyone else could. Oh god, my mouth won’t stop. How do I get my mouth to stop—“

Garfield's response was instinctive. A kiss, of course. It effectively silenced her with a gentle but firm press of his lips against hers. She kissed him back with a short giggle. This wasn’t how he imagined their first kiss. Nothing about any of this was how he imagined anything. But somehow, when they broke apart and those eyes twinkled at him, it was all even better.

“Tricked you,” she murmured with pride. “I can stop my mouth anytime, but I prefer when you stop it. I'm still drunk.”

“Me too,” he admitted with a laugh. “Drunk as hell.”

Raven sunk into his embrace once again with deep, contented sigh. The warmth of her body against his felt like an anchor in the dizzying aftermath of their Vegas escapade. “You have to take me out on a date. That’s the rule.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, his voice a soft promise.

As they settled deeper into the quiet comfort of each other’s presence, the chaos of Las Vegas seemed a world away. Here, in the simple warmth between them, everything felt strangely right. They drifted off to sleep, the promise of a proper date—and perhaps a proper future—together hanging softly in the air.