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Aziraphale awoke with a jerk, and regretted it almost immediately. His head was pounding in a way that suggested he had neglected to sober up before falling asleep the previous night.
The fact that he had fallen asleep was sufficiently unnerving. He closed his eyes against the piercing sunlight and concentrated until the pain ebbed away, leaving only a vague nausea and a dry mouth that would both be easily cured by a bit of breakfast.
However, now that he was more or less in possession of his mental faculties, he realized he had two additional dilemmas. To whit, he couldn't move his legs, and he was reasonably certain his trousers were off.
A quick look down revealed this to be half-true, his trousers were indeed pulled far down his thighs; and also that these two dilemmas, horrifyingly enough, had a common cause. There was a certain dark-haired demon sprawled unconscious across his lap in an ungainly fashion, one hand fisted in the unfastened front of Aziraphale's trousers as if they were a security blanket.
"Crowley!" he exclaimed, and tried to dislodge the sleeping demon from his person, but only succeeded in weakly kneeing him in the ribs. "Crowley, wake up!"
"Mmf," Crowley responded intelligently, turning his face in tighter against Aziraphale's thigh, his nose now mere centimeters away from… well, it was still incredibly awkward
"Crowley, please!"
"Not so loud," the demon grumbled. "D'you have to bloody yell? I'm sleeping here."
Now it was Aziraphale's turn to sigh. "That's precisely the problem, dear boy." He shifted his legs again, and Crowley burrowed in closer, and really that wasn't going to do at all.
"Stop moving my pillow," Crowley said vaguely, voice muffled by the cotton of Aziraphale's briefs, and the angel's hands flew on their own; flapping at Crowley's head.
"All right, all right, for fuck's sake! What?"
"Would you please get up?"
"What the hell for? I'm not…" began Crowley, only then realizing exactly where he was.
"Holy shit!" he screamed, sitting bolt upright and turning a spectacular shade of green immediately afterward. "Oh, I'm gonna be sick…"
"Don't be melodramatic," chastised Aziraphale, pressing the palm of his hand to Crowley's forehead; and the demon shuddered at the sensation of going from still drunk to all-too-sober in point five seconds.
"Thanks, angel." Sober or not, Crowley still winced at the brightness of the sunlight streaming into the room. "Bloody hell, where're my glasses?"
Aziraphale wasn't so concerned with that, staring out the window at the immense blue glass and chrome building just outside; just beyond that, the Eiffel Tower; and just beyond that, what appeared to be a large temple built loosely in the style of the Taj Mahal.
"Never mind that," he said. "Where are we?"
-----
With the help of some stationary conveniently left on the floor near the phone (where the table that should have presumably held these items was currently located was a mystery for another time) the two discovered they were, in fact, in a place called the Bellagio Las Vegas.
Las Vegas, Nevada.
So that was one mystery solved.
Why they were in Las Vegas was a bit more of a mystery, compounded by the fact that neither of them could exactly remember the night before. Not clearly, anyway.
"We drank a lot," Crowley commented, to which Aziraphale rolled his eyes in a long suffering fashion, tugging his trousers back up over his hips.
"Yes, but that's rather standard for us, don't you think?"
"Yeah, but no," said Crowley, gesturing to the floor to ceiling pyramid of Moet & Chandon bottles, surrounded by a decorative moat of something which, according to the labels, cost approximately two dollars a bottle and was made by someone called Charles Shaw. "We drank a lot."
"Oh dear," Aziraphale sighed. "I do hope we had the presence of mind to change that into something acceptable first."
"Yeah, well, judging by the headaches, I don't think we did."
"Oh dear," Aziraphale repeated, assessing the state of the room. The sofas were in disarray, cushions strewn upon the floor; the elegant glass coffee table shoved well away from its proper place. There were yet more empty wine bottles atop it, underneath it, and generously scattered across the floor (and really, who was this Charles Shaw person?); along with Crowley's crumpled suit jacket and tie, and a single lurid pink feather boa, which had shed dramatically over the entire scene.
Crowley had a few pink feathers still stuck in his hair, the pink even more disgustingly bright against the black.
"You have, erm, feathers in your…" Aziraphale started, waving vaguely in the direction of Crowley's hair. The demon wasn't paying attention though, eyes fixed firmly on a red and white box in his hand.
"What's that?"
Crowley answered his question with a question, still staring. "How much do you remember about last night?"
"Not as much as I should," admitted the angel, and he was still fairly distressed about that point. The look on Crowley's face suggested he wasn't as distressed as he probably should be.
"Are you sober now?"
"Yes. What's all this about?"
In response, Crowley tossed the box at him. It was a videotape. Our Special Day: Ezra Fell and Anthony J. Crowley.
"I think we should start drinking again. Right now."
Aziraphale had to agree.
-----
"It's not binding, is it?" asked the angel worriedly as Crowley set up the VCR. "I mean, this sort of thing isn't even legal here."
"I wouldn't worry about it, honestly," Crowley said, sitting back against the sofa and drinking deeply from a bottle of scotch he had conjured out of the ether. "I somehow doubt we did the paperwork. Have a drink."
Aziraphale took the bottle from him. "Well, all right, but…"
"No buts," Crowley cut him off. "Just drink." And with that, he pressed play.
And there they were on screen: Crowley in his black suit, disheveled and visibly intoxicated, swaying side to side like an Indian cobra being charmed by a flute; Aziraphale, flushed red with alcohol and embarrassment, the pink boa wrapped around his neck like a grotesque fluffy ascot.
Between them, Elvis Presley, bedecked in a white rhinestone studded jumpsuit with a priest's collar oddly and sacrilegiously sewn onto the neck.
"I din't think…" Aziraphale slurred. "It's against the law, innit? Two blokes…"
Elvis twitched his hips. "A-uh-huh," he sort of sang in response. "But your money's good, and I don't get paid to ask questions. We doin' this or what?"
On the video, Crowley pushed his lips out in a spectacular drunken pout. "Whassa matter? You don' wanna marry me or somethin'?"
"'Course I do," screen Aziraphale said, as if that was the stupidest question in the world. "Been with you for… for whatsis… for thousands of years now."
"Livin' in sin?" screen Crowley taunted, waggling his eyebrows in a lecherous fashion, and Aziraphale actually giggled at him.
"Fucking hell…" said Crowley, producing another bottle of single-malt and pouring a good deal of it directly down his throat
Aziraphale's eyes went a little wide, recalling the earlier state of his trousers. He kept drinking.
"All right then," Elvis said, taking control of the situation, so to speak. "Let's get this show on the road." He snapped his fingers and pointed at Crowley. "Anthony, do you take this, uh, man to be your lawfully wedded whatever for yadda yadda yadda?"
Crowley stood up as straight as possible, which really wasn't very straight at all. "Yeah, I s'pose. Yes." Aziraphale looked drunkenly pleased.
"And you, uh-huh, Ezra," sang Elvis. "You take Anthony to be your hunka-hunka-burnin' love?"
Aziraphale's answer was drowned out by the sound of Crowley laughing himself nearly sick, doubled over and literally clutching his sides. "Ahaha! Ha, thass hilariousss! 'Cos I'm… an'… an' hahaha, oh fuck, thass the funniest thing I ever heard!"
"You gotta admit, angel," Crowley wheezed, laughing nearly as hard as his screen counterpart. "That's amazing."
Aziraphale glared at his empty scotch until it was full again. "Not… not exac'ly the word I would use," he said, but he was smiling. It was pretty funny.
"So then by the power vested in me by the Viva Las Vegas wedding chapel and my blue suede shoes, I now pronounce you man and… also man, whatever, you may kiss the dude."
They didn't seem to need any further motivation, both leaning carefully but determinedly into each other's personal space until there was no space at all; their lips meeting in a gentle press that was nearly chaste.
That is, until Crowley threw his arm around Aziraphale's waist and yanked him off balance, pulling their bodies tightly together. Then there had been open mouths and tongues and hands wandering until Elvis intervened, pushing them down the hot pink carpet of the aisle as the tape faded to black; the haunting strains of "Love Me Tender" playing softly in the background.
"That," Aziraphale said, after a long and considered pause. "Was mortifying."
Crowley drained the bottle in his hand (his third? Fourth? He couldn't exactly remember.). "Yup," he agreed.
They drank in companionable, if more than slightly embarrassed silence for a while, both satisfied that more booze was the correct and necessary salve for their bruised egos.
Lots more booze.
-----
"So, 'Ziraphale," slurred Crowley, head leaned back against the arm of the sofa. "Where should we go f'r the honeymoon?"
The angel shifted lazily against his arm. "No honeymoon. Wasn't a wossname… proper wedding. Din't even get me a ring."
"Don' matter," Crowley countered, shaking his head. "Jus' cos it's not a real wedding don' mean we can't have a honeymoon."
Aziraphale thought about it. "Well, I s'pose we are already in Vegas an' all. Shame not to… not to enjoy it."
The demon chuckled softly. "You wanna stay here? 'S called Sin City, y'know."
"Just why we should, m'dear. Lots to… lots of… lot of thwarting I can do."
"Thasss the spirit, angel."