Vegas is dirty, crowded, busy, loud. Everything is neon and feathers, rhinestones and glitter. Music blares from the cars that drive up and down the strip; slot machines ding ding ding, drowning out the whispery sound of cards sliding easily onto the mats as dealers flick them out.
She can't remember which drink they're on. It doesn't matter; they're celebrating. Or commiserating, maybe. A case solved but a casino embarrassed... well, hell, they should have vetted their chief of security a little better. At least they're letting her and March drink for free, after paying an eye-watering amount of cash under the table to keep them from going to the papers with the story of how the Flamingo Hilton almost went under thanks to bumbling management, an overly ambitious showgirl, and a guy caught in the throes of a midlife crisis. At least there were no actual flamingos involved... she's pretty sure.
Wynonna lifts her shot glass and smiles blearily at him over the edge before her brow crinkles, bemused. "You've got feathers in your hair."
"You've got feathers everywhere," March shoots right back, and then grins just a bit because heh, look at that, he's a fucking rhymer.
Wynonna's great. Wynonna's more than great, Wynonna's the goddamn sun. She's fast, witty, has hips that make him seasick when she walks, and most importantly they actually understand each other. Whole conversations without a single word said. They make a great team, he thinks.
Or he thinks he thinks. It's hard to tell where the alcohol ends and he begins. But Holly is at her friends for a week, and they've got a few days before they have to fuck back off to LA proper and he's basking in a case that's actually been solved. They have time to celebrate, and March hasn't met a liquor he doesn't like and neither does Wynonna. Bonus? It's free.
"I think I love Vegas," he announces, and slams his shot glass into Wynonna in an attempt to cheer her, grossly overestimating his motor function at the moment. Amber liquid spills over both of their hands before March knocks it back and taps the bar for two more.
"I think this might be my favourite place in the world."
Alcohol splashes over her hand and she switches the glass to her other hand so she can lick the spilled liquor off her fingers. "You're a fucking liar. There's nowhere you like better than L.A."
Punctuated with downing the rest of her glass and setting it down to reach for the fresh one, of... what is this, bourbon? It's smoky and a little sweet and when she lifts it to look at March through the liquid, he looks like he's gotten stuck in some old sepia photograph, all warm gold and caramel. Vegas looks good on him, as much as he's an L.A. boy to the core; he fits right in with the sparkling showgirls, the loud casinos, the seedy underbelly. He looks as at home here at the bar as he would at four in the morning trying to hawk a cigarette case to a pawnbroker for some quick cash.
He's great. Everything about this is great. She's never had so much fun with another person; she's never felt so damn good as she feels right now, her head spinning lightly, her vision just unfocused enough that the lights behind him pop in gentle, hazy bubbles. "They just don't let you drink for free there."
"They just don't let you drink for free there," March agrees, echoing her words with a forlorn sort of sadness that only comes out when he's fully taking the piss.
He downs the second one, too, and the hand he places on the counter reflexively curls as the alcohol slides down his throat, smooth and perfect and, shit, his cheeks are warm, it's that stage now, huh? He turns around to face Wynonna.
No. That's the slot machine. He corrects his over correction, and turns around to actually face Wynonna. There we go.
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pacificator) wrote2024-06-21 02:31 pm
— how does your light shine in the halls of Shambala
She can't remember which drink they're on. It doesn't matter; they're celebrating. Or commiserating, maybe. A case solved but a casino embarrassed... well, hell, they should have vetted their chief of security a little better. At least they're letting her and March drink for free, after paying an eye-watering amount of cash under the table to keep them from going to the papers with the story of how the Flamingo Hilton almost went under thanks to bumbling management, an overly ambitious showgirl, and a guy caught in the throes of a midlife crisis. At least there were no actual flamingos involved... she's pretty sure.
Wynonna lifts her shot glass and smiles blearily at him over the edge before her brow crinkles, bemused. "You've got feathers in your hair."
Have those been there the whole time?
no subject
Wynonna's great. Wynonna's more than great, Wynonna's the goddamn sun. She's fast, witty, has hips that make him seasick when she walks, and most importantly they actually understand each other. Whole conversations without a single word said. They make a great team, he thinks.
Or he thinks he thinks. It's hard to tell where the alcohol ends and he begins. But Holly is at her friends for a week, and they've got a few days before they have to fuck back off to LA proper and he's basking in a case that's actually been solved. They have time to celebrate, and March hasn't met a liquor he doesn't like and neither does Wynonna. Bonus? It's free.
"I think I love Vegas," he announces, and slams his shot glass into Wynonna in an attempt to cheer her, grossly overestimating his motor function at the moment. Amber liquid spills over both of their hands before March knocks it back and taps the bar for two more.
"I think this might be my favourite place in the world."
no subject
Punctuated with downing the rest of her glass and setting it down to reach for the fresh one, of... what is this, bourbon? It's smoky and a little sweet and when she lifts it to look at March through the liquid, he looks like he's gotten stuck in some old sepia photograph, all warm gold and caramel. Vegas looks good on him, as much as he's an L.A. boy to the core; he fits right in with the sparkling showgirls, the loud casinos, the seedy underbelly. He looks as at home here at the bar as he would at four in the morning trying to hawk a cigarette case to a pawnbroker for some quick cash.
He's great. Everything about this is great. She's never had so much fun with another person; she's never felt so damn good as she feels right now, her head spinning lightly, her vision just unfocused enough that the lights behind him pop in gentle, hazy bubbles. "They just don't let you drink for free there."
no subject
He downs the second one, too, and the hand he places on the counter reflexively curls as the alcohol slides down his throat, smooth and perfect and, shit, his cheeks are warm, it's that stage now, huh? He turns around to face Wynonna.
No. That's the slot machine. He corrects his over correction, and turns around to actually face Wynonna. There we go.
"I think I might be drunk."