After a flawless mission, the most satisfying success the team had in a long time—Price rewarded the crew with a weekend in the city—Las Vegas.

In hindsight, it was a horrible idea. Soap and Gaz always went overboard—somehow roping you and Simon along. Soap had bought a digital camera before the night started—and the only constant you remembered was that fucking camera, documenting every bad decision.

The rest of the night was a blur, the only things you remembered were; Gaz danced on stage, only moving when tighty–whities were thrown at him. Simon took 3 shots, hit a bong, then braved holding an anaconda. Soap brawled with a bouncer, mistaking being escorted out for being attacked.

You woke up to the sun already high in the sky, head pounding with every heartbeat. You cursed, blinking away the fog—only to realize nothing was right.

The hotel room was trashed, and you quickly realize you're neither clothed, alone, nor in bed.

You bolted up—curling in on yourself with a pained groan as your head throbs with the movement—disturbing the person next to you on the couch.

"Fucking hell..." The voice was low and gravelly, distinctly British and familiar—and as you looked over, Simon turned his back to you—the sheets sliding down his waist, revealing a fresh tramp stamp tattooed into his pale skin.

You bark out a laugh, Simon grumbles, looking over his shoulder to glare at you. "What?" He groans, annoyed. The man looked as bad as you felt.

Before you could say anything about the tattoo, something on his left hand glints in the sunlight. A wedding band? There's an unfamiliar weight around your ring finger, and your heart drops.

Your eyes drift the only thing that wasn't destroyed in the room. A small piece of paper, a marriage certificate holding both yours and Simon's signatures.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me..." Simon groans, his gaze falling upon exactly what you'd spotted—eyes widening in disbelief.

"I fucking hate Vegas." he groaned, flopping back down onto the couch.