AN: Weird things Tam writes at 1 AM on night shift, part 1. Chapter 26 was "getting married," and from the outset I knew I wanted to do something with Othello and Desdemona. I just wasn't sure how to go about it, so I wound up playing around in the modern AU conceived in Bloody Christmas in July.

"Right, it's nearing half past. They comin' or what?"

Picture the first. Safronov's club, all decked out. Deck the halls balls to the wall, lights down low when they cleared out all. Black stone bar polished to a mirrorlike sheen, low beams and chintzy pillars done up all lush in fairy lights and Tesco flowers. A sorry sight for precious few sore eyes.

Iago sighs. Tugs at the camera strap cutting into the back of his sunburnt neck. "Course they're fuckin' coming, 's their own fucking wedding. Daft cunt. 'S only that Em and Cass are playing chauffeur an' they're always fuckin' late."

"So asking them to do that was a great decision on O's part's what you're saying," Montano says, dry as dust. His fingers twitch toward the bottle of Macallan he'd nicked from behind the bar; twice, convulsively, he licks chapped lips. With a too-knowing glint in his dark eyes he adds, probing, "He could've asked you."

"Could've done." Didn't do.

Picture the second. Hands trembling muscles twitching eyes fixed on the sticky floor, some idiot demon of thought turned on the tap and broke the fucking handle can't shut the flow off.

Didn't even know they was getting fucking married till Em said summat about it. Offhand. Look sharp, lad, O and Des are getting hitched down the Safron tonight, bring the good camera! There's decorations at Montano's and he's officiating, can you guys maybe set everything up? How about you fucking tell me who fucking set this up. Which one of you royal sodding fucks thought yeah, you know who doesn't need to know O's so far gone up girl he's marrying her until the day he does? His best mate. You know who should've fucking known? His fucking best mate.

He doesn't say any of that. Doesn't say, either, that it should've been him walking O down that aisle playing escort. No point saying any of it. But Montano won't leave off looking at him, won't let him hide behind this wall of words unspoken.

It's too much like concern, the way he looks at him. Makes him fucking sick.

Picture the third. Two men stand at opposite ends of the club's curtained-off back room, strong bodies poised at perpendicular lines that would rather never intersect. Both in uniform: Royal Navy and 1st Armoured Division, the shadows of battles won and lost clinging to them like lint. Both itching for a drink, a cig; a fight, a fling. Both stubbornly ignoring the pain of new beginnings and foregone conclusions, old wounds and new bonds. Both waiting, waiting, and hating the doing.

"Fucking mental, aye?" Montano, laughing a little, shakes his head, His dreads, hanging loose, swing about his face, casting pendulum shadows of time slipping by. "Wasn't too long ago they met, and now this. 'Spose O wanted to do it before you lot went out for training or took the band on tour, but, y'know…."

"It feels a little rushed?" Posing the question is just about superfluous, for Iago knows the answer (yes, yes, yes), but it takes some of the venom out of the shared sentiment. Benign commiseration and that. Bit of a laugh, innit-these kids and their puppy love, amirite?

And sure enough Montano laughs again, louder this time. "Hey, man, I wasn't gonna say it!"

"Just's well I did, then." Light and easy, cut the snark with a smirk. God forbid any of them actually harbour any serious objections to the object at hand.

Picture the fourth. The musical hum of an Italian sports car rumbling beneath the rusty clanking of a shitbox handicapped van. Thumping, clashing beats: Big Shaq and Randhawa/Kumar, hey, man's not hot. Abrupt silence ringing as they pull up to the kerb. From the sports car emerge two men, from the van two women: dark and fair, smiling to heal and dressed to kill. Bazin boubou, three-piece silk suit, wedding gown of tulle and lace, sparkling sari. With a whoop one man pushes the other into the deserted club before the eyes of the girls can their way stray. Wouldn't do to kill the luck on wedding day.

Montano jumps, sends his cue cards flying. Nearly knocks over a vase in his scramble to pick them up. "They're here, they're here, I hear them, are you rolling?"

"Shit. Yes. Shit." Iago, pressing his eyes closed, powers the camera up.

Othello and Cassio burst into the back room in a tangle of tailored limbs. Cassio clears his throat, pats gingerly at his meticulously gelled hair, and moves to stand beside Montano at the inlaid card table serving as their altar. Othello grabs Iago in a bear hug, melodious accent rolling thicker than usual in his excitement, Shit man I'm sorry it was such short notice I'm so glad you made it mate it means the world, nearly knocks him over. Pain pulls hot and sharp at his bad knee as he catches himself, drawing in a breath through gritted teeth.

"Sorry, sorry." Othello's grinning far too wide for the contrition to be anything remotely resembling genuine. "Christ, you're even filming and I just fuckin' got right in your face, I'm sorry. I'm just-" So happy to see you? So sorry I won't see you the same way again?

Iago shrugs his off. "Get your sorry arse over there 'fore you give this fuckin' cunt-" jerking an elbow towards the guffawing Montano-"the wrong idea 'bout who he's marrying off."

And fuck if it doesn't hurt to joke about. Hurts like hell.

Picture the fifth. The women stand silhouetted at the threshold, visions of perfection in ivory and gold. The scraggly bouquets of wildflowers they hold still drip dirt from their limp roots. A few of those flowers have been hastily woven into hair they spent hours styling, free-spirited afterthoughts that complement perfectly this free-spirited afterthought of a wedding. Of a relationship.

The captain speaks. The best friends smile, throw coins and rice. The bride and groom close their eyes to the world clamouring for their attention and kiss, lost to time within each other. And the thwarted hand behind the camera films, whispers cheeky commentary, and pretends he can't feel the pain of his once-beloved heart breaking into pieces, the ice of tears unwanted creeping in to fill the cracks.

Turns out sea captains cannot, in fact, officiate on-land marriages (or at-sea) in most countries, the UK included. So for the purposes of this chapter we shall pretend Montano was ordained by other means. XD