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that's what you get for waking up in vegas

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The light streaming in through the window warms Mark’s face as he wakes up with the worst hangover he’s ever fucking had.

 

He regrets opening his eyes immediately after he does so; the bright white of the sheets hurts to look at and he catches a glimpse of tufty red hair on the pillow next to him before he squeezes his eyes back shut with a groan, cuddles into the person next to him, and tells himself that it’s alright if today is a lazy day. He can spend the morning in bed, lying next to Sam, buried under the covers and not moving until at least 2pm, and everything will be--

 

Wait.

 

Sam?

 

His eyes shoot back open, pain be damned, as he remembers that he hasn’t dated Sam in years and also wait, fuck, her hair was definitely not that short last time he saw her.

 

That’s not Sam.

 

He takes a better look this time, takes in more of the person’s features; a man, short red hair, freckles, tall, kind of a twig, and-- wait. Wait. Nope. Nope nope nope.

 

Lying next to him, wearing Mark’s clothes from yesterday layered over his own, is Owen Fucking Green.

 

What the fuck,” he yells, far louder than anyone should be in a hotel, as he scrambles back across the bed and tries to get up. The blanket tangles around his leg as he does, though, and he tumbles onto the carpet and lands in a heap with all the grace of Bambi learning to walk for the first time. He ends up sprawled on his back, legs in the air, ankle still wrapped in the blanket that he’s absolutely yanked off of Owen and taken with him and suddenly very aware of the fact that he is wearing literally nothing-- except, for some reason, socks. Just socks. Nothing else.

 

The commotion startles Owen awake and he looks around blearily as he shoots up in bed, looking alarmed. “Wha--?”

 

Some amount of better judgement finally kicks in on Mark’s part. “Uhhh… Don’t look over here?”

 

Mark?”

 

“Yup, yeah, it’s me, just stay way over on that side of the bed, nothing to see here!”

 

“What the hell--”

 

Owen does not listen. His head pokes up over the side of the bed and Mark scrambles to cover himself with the blanket as Owen immediately ducks back away from him and yells “Jesus, Mark!”

 

“Hey, I told you not to look, that is not my fault!”

 

“You never said why! Wait.” Mark, now sitting upright and sufficiently concealed, furrows his brow at the horror suddenly present in Owen’s voice.

 

“...What?”

 

“...Why… aren’t you wearing clothes?”

 

Huh.

 

That… was not something Mark had thought about as much as he should have. His face twists.

 

“Eugh.”

 

“...Yeah.”

 

“Alright, well, given that I think you’ve somehow ended up wearing more clothing than you had last night, I don’t think we uh… did anything,” Mark says, lip curling in disgust at the thought. “No fucking clue why it’s my clothing, though. Also where the hell is my underwear?”

 

Owen’s face turns into a grimace as he hesitantly glances down, pulling back the bands on his two pairs of pants and squinting.  His face falls as he turns back towards Mark, awkwardness tinging his voice. “I have those too.”

 

“...Cool. Keep them. I don’t want those anymore.”

 

What makes you think I want them?!”

 

“Well, you are wearing them…” Mark stands up slowly, waiting for Owen to look in the other direction before discarding the blanket and reaching for his bag, rummaging through it for his change of clothes.  He kicks on his underwear and jeans first, then as he pulls his shirt over his head, he notices something that makes him freeze. Something on his left hand, glinting in the sunlight.

 

“Hey, Green...” he chokes out quietly.

 

“Huh?” Owen responds, turning back towards the other man.

 

“Look— Look at your left hand.”

 

“What? Why— Oh. Oh . Is that—?”

 

“A wedding ring?” He squeezes his eyes shut, truly hoping for any answer other than what he’s expecting.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Oh hell no.”

 

“...We need to call Joan.”