Warning: Slash. Skwisgaar/Charles.
Word Count:
2716
Disclaimer:
I own nothing.

Pretend that two guys can get married in the state of Nevada, because I don't think they can. Can they? I don't think they can. I don't even know. I don't even know where this story came from, it just sort of started being written on a whim.


What Happens in Vegas Stays With Your Lawyer


They were in Las Vegas. And in Vegas, Charles had been informed, there were two things to do. Getting drunk was one of them. Beyond that… either Skwisgaar had trailed off or Charles had forgotten, which was a frequent side effect of letting the boys talk him into getting sloppy with them.

For example, he had very definitely forgotten exactly what was in the shot glass they were trying to get him to take now, so he was firmly refusing to do so.

"But you gots to drinks dis, butlers man," Skwisgaar insisted, slouching against Charles and holding the glass in front of his face. "Pickle ams poureds it eck-speckticallies for yous…"

"I don't think that would be a good idea." He may have been slurring a little, but Charles still had his common sense.

"Pffft…"

With surprising grace, Skwisgaar swung a long leg over and settled above Charles on the couch. He put his palm on top of the manager's head, working his fingers into short brown hair, and forced him to tilt his head back.

"You drinks dis nows," he commanded haughtily, pressed the shot glass to Charles' lips, and tipped it.

Charles could have pushed him off, but there was a table somewhere in that direction and he couldn't risk Skwisgaar cracking his head open in the middle of a tour.

The alcohol burned on the way down.


A series of memory fragments that Charles was going to have to piece together in the morning:


Pickles poured another round and Skwisgaar stayed put, to make sure Charles drank his.


Toki said something about a lights show, so they all smoked… something, before going to see that. The air was so thick that the contact high and actually taking a hit were probably pretty much the same thing, Charles rationalized…


Watching the light show in seats build to recline. There were a lot of blues. And purples. Skwisgaar, sitting in the next seat over, had wandering hands.


Either Skwisgaar had rolled over into his seat, or pulled Charles over the padded armrest onto his. It was hard to tell, and Charles hadn't been given much say in the matter besides "oof."


After the light show, the others wanted to go find a bar.

The bathroom next to the theater was empty.

These, Charles decided, were the most beautiful knees he'd ever seen on a man.


There was a strange taste in his mouth. What had been in those shots?


"Dere aaaaaaams… t'ing to does ins Vegas," Skwisgaar announced, punctuating the statement with a swig from a bottle of… something. "We does dat."

He put the bottle to Charles' mouth (ow) and tipped. More of the liquid went on his shirt and almost (but not quite) unknotted tie than down his throat.

"Dens maybe I does dis," Skwisgaar added with a slur and a leer, taking the bottle away and giving Charles's ass a smack.


"Wait," Charles mumbled. "Wait. Not yet. I was, I was raised with standers."

"Pffffft," against his skin.


"No, no, it's okay," Charles told the Elvis impersonator, "I'm his lawyer. I've got power of attorney." He waved vaguely at where Skwisgaar had passed out on the floor. "I can sign his stuff."


"Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey."

"Whaaaaaats?"

"I'm not going to wear this. I dun, dun, don't think it goes with my tie."

"Ja okays, I wasn'ts goings to wear mines eider. Not very brutals."

"We could get… black ones? Pass the bottle again."


Stumbling back into the Dethbus. A gear stepped forward, silently offering to help the lead guitarist to his room, but Charles waved the hooded servant off; he could do this himself.


Trying to tug those tight pants down by the belt buckle.


It felt good. To feel someone stretched out against him, a warm anchor while the room – hell, considering who they were, the whole world – revolved around them.

He yawned, feeling free to drift off. It was all right. Felt good…